


It's Lit: How to Burn a Lot of Literature

by AdhocPeacock



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Actually it's pretty high-key, And I will warn again: terrible jokes, Angst, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Friendship and Flirtation, Humor, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Non-Graphic Violence, Original Character(s), Political Plot of Politics, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, Protective Crowley, The Nice and Historically Inaccurate Fanfiction of Dumbass Writer; Bitch, low-key pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-14 08:33:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 40,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21012833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdhocPeacock/pseuds/AdhocPeacock
Summary: The city of Alexandria draws Aziraphale and Crowley to it for vastly different reasons: one wants to protect what remains of the library and stop the city from falling once more, and the other just wants the angel to leave town before he gets burned.But neither an angel, a demon, nor heaven or hell can stop the tides of change.





	1. Of Cakes, Sassy Philosophers, and Agreements

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to my wonderful artist, Mio, who was absolutely the most amazing person to work with. Please check out her social media on twitter @esmiora or esmioraa on IG! Give her all the love and support! Click the links. Do it. Just do it, go follow her. 
> 
> [Esmoria On Twitter! come on click the link you know you want to](https://twitter.com/esmiora?lang=en)
> 
> [Esmoriaa On Instagram! do it, click ittttttttttt](https://www.instagram.com/esmioraa/?hl=en)

An arrangement and an agreement are, in most cases, interchangeable nouns. In some instances, these two words are parallel in definition rather than synonyms. An arrangement, by virtue, tends to suggest a long term affair that runs similarly to a divorced couple taking the kid every other week. There’s a set of rules, expected conduct, and will generally stand the test of time and comfortable relationship boundaries. 

An agreement, by contrast, lends to a shorter, defined compromise that two or more parties adhere to for both their benefits, generally for a singular purpose. These sorts of accord will generally not stand the test of time and comfortable relationship boundaries.

A short Etymology on the origin of a specific kind of accord between two people — the word agreement stems from Old French.

Agrément: _1705–15; < French: literally, pleasure._

This could mean anything. If you ask certain angels in certain contexts, they might look offended and spout a quote from whatever book he might be reading during tea time, like, “there are no facts, only interpretations.” 

(This was from Nietzche, who was a regular go-to for certain angels in a more fatalistic mood). 

Then again, amidst debating the existence of good, evil, and the demise of religion itself, he also said, “it is not a lack of love, but a lack of friendship that makes unhappy marriages.” 

Pleasure: _verb (used without object), pleas·ured, pleas·ur·ing. to take pleasure; delight:_

Ex. I_ take pleasure in your company. _

Or, if you’re not looking for anything of particular note, maybe the word simply means something like: 

Ex. _ to seek pleasure, as by taking a holiday. _

__________

415 C.E.

Alexandria, Egypt

[Inside a darling little restaurant known only to the discerning palate as the best place to find caramelized figs and date bread]

  
“Oh, an agreement, that’s what you’re calling it?” Aziraphale said to Crowley, who was lounging widely upon the inch-high chaise set out in the wide garden, popping pieces of salted fish into his mouth. 

They were both in the city, by sheer coincidence, doing some blessing and some tempting, respectively. 

And at the moment, both were laying on their sides, indulging in a quick break from their duties, clocked out for lunch on official terms (as mandated during work hours). 

“See, that’s the sort of attitude that’ll get you nowhere. Try to have an open mind about this,” said Crowley. “I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t think it would work for us both.”

“No, no. End of discussion.” The angel huffed and flagged a servant down for more wine.

“I’ll even take first, since you’re digging your heels. You’re here to, what? Shake your tail feathers at some mercenaries, wait outside a few bathhouses to encourage spouses to return home instead of sleeping about?”

“Why has the discussion continued when I’m fairly certain it ended,” Aziraphale said flatly. He lowered his gaze over a freshly filled cup, darting between the demon’s eyes stewing viper-gold under the shadowed roof of the courtyard. 

Crowley picked an olive off his plate and tossed it into his mouth. “Because I have a point, and you haven’t tried to stop me from talking.”

Aziraphale tossed his hands up. “You’re a lunatic.” He did not, however, stop Crowley from talking. 

“Right so,” Crowley said brightly, as though Aziraphale had assisted his argument, “I take your righteous and holy duties in addition to my evil, naughty ones this time ‘round while you sit nice and pretty. Eat some cake, drink some wine, sit back–”

Aziraphale had since tilted his head to the side, eyebrow crooked up. “And you would be so interested in taking my duties. The holy ones. Really.”

“I’m trying to show you it’ll work,” Crowley said. His hand spread out, smile all too open, inviting. “Proof of concept.”

Aziraphale squinted at him, suspicious. “And I’m supposed to believe that you want to help an angel out of the kindness of your heart?  
  
“Been loads of help before. And,” Crowley added, leaning over the bowl of grapes, “I wouldn’t mind a Get Out of Jail Free card when I get called out to Rome for a gambling brothel. Too boring, not really “evil,” and it’s a waste of my malicious talents. ”

“A trade for your ne’er do-well deeds!” The angel sounded scandalized. 

“So you aren’t required to hoof it over to Sparta during the Trojan War. Or, you know. Right before it.”

“That was a _simple misunderstanding—_”

“Paris didn’t think so.” 

Aziraphale sputtered, nose scrunching into insulted, cheeks aflame. His lips closed tightly, thinning into an unhappy purse. “That was low.” 

“I’m doing you a favor, angel,” said Crowley, who was, for some reason, still being relatively patient despite the stern opposition he was receiving. He muttered, lowly, “besides, would have saved us both a lot of trouble back then.” 

“You don’t do favors. You do temptations.” 

“Mutual symbiosis. Something like that. I should write a science paper. Whatever, you get it, we both benefit.”

“And I’d be sent off to Rome.” 

“An excursion. Come on, you have to admit a vacation sounds nice.”

“Why don’t you want to go to Rome, Crowley?” Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. 

“Oh, you know. Just some faces I’d rather avoid.” Crowley shrugged as he leaned back, raising his cup while he smirked a little too smartly to convince Aziraphale of anything surrounding the word honest. “Do me this solid, I’ll cover whatever business you have here.”

Aziraphale grimaced, setting his cup down carefully on the lavish embroidered blanket spread across the floor between them. They could see the Pharos Lighthouse from the open windows, a bonfire lit at the top like a torch, guiding ships to port. The little restaurant sat down the quieter roads, a few streets down from the Canopic Way, where the imperious noise of politicians and the bearing calls of ship merchants all meshed together in one large mess reminiscent of a shopping mall. 

This place became a quick favorite; actually, Alexandria was a rather nice place for luncheons. Crowley sampled wines from a dozen coasts and Aziraphale thought they had a wonderful library. 

And so far, the wide stroked, black and white line between casual-conversation-partner and not-interfering-at-all with one another’s business hadn’t been crossed.

Except, perhaps, that one time in Troy. 

In fact, Aziraphale owed Crowley, but neither were in a rush to point that out — rushing, at some point, and at a few more points, became a moot point. This fact was at least somewhat of an inspiration for his slow, drawn out answer.

“I suppose there’s always something good to be doing in Rome. I’m not agreeing to anything yet, I want some answers out of you first,” Aziraphale warned. 

“There’s the spirit,” said Crowley. He threw back the rest of the contents of his cup, sitting upright. His dark tunic was crumpled, but a snap of his fingers laid it back into place. 

Aziraphale did the same, but finished off the remaining breads and grapes left on their tray. He stood, heaving a sigh. “We’ll sort it out, but I have some business to attend to before this evening. The usual spot tonight, then?”*

“Schnell, angel.” Crowley waved him off with a flourish of his hand. Aziraphale left a few coins at the table and bustled away.

_*His business included, but wasn’t limited to: cozying up to an epic and drinking copious amounts of specialty Alexandrian tea. Maybe some wine. Or, lots of wine. The Iliad called for it when Aziraphale spent a devoted evening getting teary eyed over Patroclus’ death.** Having been there, it was particularly moving._

_**As a further note, there were no spoiler alerts listed here for the Iliad, because the epic’s been around 3000 bloody years, pick up a book. _

__________

__________

In the same moment a demon suggested a simple, uncomplicated job switch, a conversation was simultaneously occurring in the west side of Alexandria that would prove equally important, equally shaping to the fate of the city. In both corresponding meetings, in both individual locations, the grapes set on the table originally grew from the same bush. This was entirely by coincidence. 

__________

The culture of Alexandria was a bit like the culture of a fire ant colony. On the surface, the city’s inhabitants lacked any sense of order. They climbed over one another to get somewhere faster, ready with their fiery pincers to instill the fear of God into the fleshy ankles that inconvenienced them. Inside the colony itself, there lived a maze of connections between ants — or people, if you prefer. It was intricate, sprawling, and much wider than you’d think when you first looked at it. And since Alexandria looked like a very big city, there was quite a bit going on beneath. 

Fire ants are aggressive creatures, and can kill small animals when they’re properly motivated; for food, to protect their nest, to cause general nuisance, etc. 

Colonies of ants often fight one another, and, in the case of encountering a foreign colony, that collision will become something of a bloodbath. The likelihood that both colonies — despite being of the same species — will pick off the other to extinction increases exponentially. This is the most common, most dangerous kind of no-score-draw. 

Disputes between multiple theologies tend to lean towards this outcome. In Alexandria, this was precisely what was taking place. 

It was also this ancient hot-button issue (that really isn’t so ancient when you consider the human condition) that brought Orestes, Prefect of Egypt, stationed in Alexandria as a go-between for Rome and the people, to grumble in the study of a very patient scholar, breathing in as much steaming chamomile as possible.

“There are better ways to relieve afflictions. My suggestions involve alcohol or mind-altering plants.” Hypatia set herself down across him on a cushion, balancing tea for herself as she relaxed into it. 

Orestes breathed in, deeper. “Are you here to counsel or cause my head further grief?” 

“If I’ve done my job correctly, both.” Hypatia sipped calmly from her cup. She was proper: hair curled and pinned, elegant in her movements, genteel in everything but opinion. 

Her father, Theon, was a scholar and famed mathematician. An apt mind cultivated into the sciences and philosophy, Hypatia became the head scholar and beloved teacher of the Serapeum. They hadn’t yet invented a ceiling made entirely of glass panels, but if they had, Hypatia would have engineered it. And then, promptly, she would have smashed it to pieces.

Orestes was her junior by half a decade. Where Hypatia presented as a timeless, youthful muse, Orestes was undoubtedly ageing. Stress without an outlet will do that to a person, no matter how young. 

This was odd in some eyes, as starting a career anywhere near Roman and Egyptian politics was the epitome of a worry-free, easygoing life. The pay was fantastic: you could raise your salary at any time (provided you also raised taxes in your province). The healthcare benefits were even better: in the event that you survive an assasination attempt, physicians tended to treat you better if there were men prepared to murder their families if you die under their care. Stress relief in this lifestyle often involved exuberant purchases, indulging in fancy food, and stabbing particularly annoying public officials. In some circles, they were even beginning to adopt the original form of goat yoga. 

If Hypatia and Orestes were lesser people and better politicians, this get-together might have seemed like a part of a conspiracy. The only thing missing was another couple people to stand in a circle to mutter about how they should most definitely not take out the offending party with a small, organized gathering to honor said victim’s accomplishments to that point. In death, celebrate life, or however that saying goes. 

The man they were currently discussing was Cyril; Patriarch of Alexandria, Church Father, upstanding member of the Council of Ephesius, uptight wanker. He was cruel, calculating, and too fond of excessively watered down wine to be trusted. 

The two people in question, rather, break the mold and don’t plan to kill the person causing them dilemma. This decision is made with great reluctance. 

They were surrounded by shelving filled with scrolls, stacked in some order only seen by a discerning eye, and only if that discerning eye was Hypatia herself. She’d heard about Cyril’s latest motion to shoo out a little Christian church that held just slightly varied views to his own and hurried off to make some tea for when Orestes inevitably came to throttle a pillow or two. 

“I can’t do anything, Hypatia, they're at one another’s throats. Cyril would jump on the chance to start a war,” Orestes said. “How does one stop the tide from drowning the beach?”

Hypatia hummed, finger tapping against her lips. “Terrible metaphor. The tides are supposed to do that. Is man meant to destroy one another, or is that a human invention, do you think?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t think I care.” Orestes pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“You should. It’s important. Also, you should refrain from trying to come up with any further metaphors.” 

“I have more concerning things to be,” he paused, blinked, and continued, “concerned about, than—”  
  
“Drink some tea and take a step back. If you permit me, I can speak with my students, and we’ll have more than our minds to work with, yes?” Hypatia patted his hand comfortingly. 

The prefect looked suddenly very old. “You have a reach amongst the educated. There are too many wills in play for a few decent people to make a difference in conflicting religious groups. The only thing missing is organization, and each one of them would have an army.”

“You have a couple very nice mobs,” she offered. 

“Yes, thank you.”

Hypatia hummed. Her expression turned thoughtful, a curl of dark hair falling across her brow when he leaned back. “Do you know, in my classes, I have an almost equal amount of students Christian to pagan and Jew?”

Orestes opened his mouth, but ended up sighing heavily, head rolling back while he pinched his nose. She was leading this conversation somewhere, and Orestes was at the whims of the woman who left a breadcrumb trail to find her point. “And, how do you keep them from killing one another?”

“I tell them to shut up and read their text.” 

Hypatia’s warm smile was infectious. The contrast between her face and her words was enough to pull a bark of laughter from Orestes. His shoulders relaxed more. “Right then.”

She reached out and took his hand in hers, squeezing it fondly. “You convince them that they have more in common than they have different. In that moment, they shared a cruel mongol of an orator. People don’t need much inspiration to want to share human experience with another. That’s innate.”

Orestes looked up and met her eyes with a soft shake of his head. “For someone so intelligent, you’re a bit idealistic.”

“A good thing to be if you have ideals.”

It was very hard not to be fond of the way she spoke. That endless optimism, the snappy retorts that put up with very little and can hold up so very much The chamomile tea was back in Orestes’ hands, and he hid his smile behind his cup. “Have an answer for everything do you?”

“No.” She sat up again, but her smile suddenly didn’t reach as wide as it should have, voice softer than he was used to. “I should hope I never do.”

All at once, Orestes was reminded why he was here, why he needed answers to begin with, and he drank deeply. She didn’t have the answers, but he wished someone did. Pretending for a moment that the city might pull itself together before it exploded made getting inebriated a little more enticing. It was only here that he trusted another not to take advantage of a perceived vulnerability, show any amount of hesitation. 

He grimaced after he pulled the tea away from his lips. “Could do with water into wine.” 

Hypatia waited, brow raised. Then he swallowed, studying the bottom of his cup. “Cyril is inciting this. It’s as if he wants people killing one another in his streets.”

With such a large quantity of religions clashing together in a trade city, Cyril had gone around choosing which ones he liked best. It was unfortunate that he only liked one, which involved a Book that went ‘round being rewritten a few times to suit Roman taste nice and tidy, politely ignoring that bit about Pontius Pilate. 

And, politely, in the first three years since arriving to lead the people in the “way of the Emperor,” Cyril sent over a dozen religious sects scurrying out of their homes. 

“What he wants is to win,” said Hypatia, nose crinkling in distaste. “He plays games, but he doesn’t want it all to fall apart. That’d ruin any game he wanted to play.”

“I don’t think he knows what separates one from another. A pure city, in whatever form he thinks that should be, is endgame.”

“There’s a few of us with power who can do something about that.” She looked at him, a pointed look in her eyes.

Orestes was tired. He was attempting to push back the patriarch, voice of the church, and in turn, push back against the emperor. Shifting in his seat, he took a deep breath, deciding to address the safety of those at a grander risk by association. “Hypatia. You speak against him publicly, but I worry what it means for you to stand at my back.” 

“I stand where I want to stand, Orestes.” Hypatia’s chin was tilted up. Orestes had the wherewithal not to follow that point any farther if he wanted to avoid being enthusiastically clubbed over the head with an astrolabe. 

He knew better than to act placating to her in any manner. Instead, he grimaced. “Try not to get yourself into too much trouble.”

She clicked her tongue. “You’re no fun.”

He closed his eyes. He really wished his tea was some sort of alcohol. “I’m serious. If you feel this is hilarious to you, I’ll be taking my leave,” he said, and stood up just as she flapped her hand at him to sit back down.

“Gather yourself, prefect. Laughing to ourselves about life’s tribulations never hurt anyone. I’m only suggesting that there are more ways to fight back than an assassin. And, it’d almost be harder to turn the forum against him,” said Hypatia.

“He’s expecting me to do one or both of those things.”

“So, perhaps take the unexpected course. Go talk to him.” She seemed relaxed as she spoke. 

“What, Cyril?”

“I didn’t stutter.” Her brows were raised, as if she wondered why he questioned the idea. 

“You’re a lunatic,” he said.* 

_*He said this at the same time as an angel said it to a demon in another conversation, in another part of the city. This was a matter of pure coincidence._

She shrugged. “And yet people seem to like me. You also came for something you referred to as “counsel,” but surely you knew this conversation would end in an idea you’re not particularly keen on. And each time you listen, you admit — albeit sometimes in hindsight — that they’re good ones.”

“Sometimes you have good ideas. I’m not sure this is one of them. He exiles a small church sect from the city, I say, “hey, don’t do that,” and he’ll go, “oh what a fun person to use as target practice,” and then I have my head on a stake.” 

Hypatia rolled her eyes. “Dramatics.”

“No, I rather think it isn’t.” Orestes ran a frustrated hand through short, dark hair. “I govern a city, I don’t strategize military tactics.”

Hypatia softened, and allowed him a few long seconds of silence. 

Then, slowly, she broke it. 

“Do you know, it wasn’t rhetorical, when I asked you if man was meant to fight one another. If we’re made to attack and destroy, is that as inborn as any other animal instinct?” 

Orestes grimaced, and opened his mouth to answer.

Somewhere outside, there was the clatter of a wagon passing through, the sound of people talking over one another, someone starting a fight in the distance. His eyes lowered away from hers and studied the floor. 

She went quiet for a long time, looking off to the window. Then she looked back and said firmly, “Humors.” 

“Erm,” said Orestes.

“Humors. An imbalance of them. Supposed to be a contributing factor to disease, irritability, and death. They have a similar thing in the east they call chakra.”

“You’re not a physician,” Orestes said, uncertain. 

“Oh, no, but I am funny. People seem to forget you can do that sort of thing nowadays. You know, tell jokes.”

Sometimes, rarely, Orestes thought he might be able to keep up with Hypatia. Sometimes he thought she was the most intelligent, thought-provoking individual of their time, and sometimes he wondered whether he was regularly advised by a mathematically inclined chipmunk in a woman’s likeness. 

There was a shout from the outside, and both went quiet at the overlapping voices of a crowd. The calls of “heresy” and “blasphemy” and “oppressors” echoed in her study, reflecting pieces of words back from the marble. Something about the evening drew out the angry, and the agora down the street collected passing civilians into arguing at the entrance. Some defended their beliefs, some condemned them. The agora was something of an open forum, an open stage, where anyone from anywhere could stand and talk. Often, they would sway people. More often, they would incite further disarray. Fights broke out on occasion, but they were just that: fights. Not war, not yet. 

“Something tells me Cyril is going to expel another church from the city. The last ones he exiled considered themselves Christian, but weren’t godly enough for him. He’ll force most the city to leave by the time he’s done,” she said, prompting. 

Now, this was where Orestes was faced with two choices. There were more than two, really, but Orestes was not Hypatia, and didn’t think in the same way as artists might, presented with the options before him. 

Heed Hypatia’s advice, or do whatever Cyril was expecting him to do.

He was a lawmaker, damnit, and playing war games with a patriarch was about the last thing he’d planned to spend his career doing. This was not to say he lacked intellect; he lacked imagination. He did not, however, lack drive. 

Orestes rose to his current position through bribery and well placed gossip (which generally involved his competitors and two sheep. Sometimes, the rumors got more clever, with more olive oil references, depending on the day). But then, it also helped that he created a plan for clean water sourcing, established an orphanage, and laughed well with his friends. 

He was kind, bought his wife thoughtful gifts, and liked kids. He was shady, ornery at times, and enjoyed steaming bathhouses as much as the next person. 

Not good, not bad, all stunningly human. 

And whatever else he might have been, he was loyal to his city. 

When Orestes stood, it was with a sense of direction, posture straight, bracing himself. “I believe Cyril will be in the forum tomorrow afternoon.”

Hypatia smiled. She got to her feet as well, tipping her head forward. “And if you’ll excuse me, I should prepare for my morning class.” 

__________

“Oh, three of those my dear, I’ll eat one as I go,” Aziraphale said, pressing a couple bronze sestertii into a young woman’s outstretched palm. 

Her name was Persephone, one that was specifically chosen from The New Homeric Hymns* because her parents were, for lack of a better term, nerds, as far as he could tell. She’d mentioned how they indulged in the use of the Serapeum Library often before they passed away, and that was where Aziraphale had met her. 

_*The New Homeric Hymns were actually written as a failed satirical attempt by an anonymous author who went neatly by the initials, AC. Aziraphale did try to warn the demon that his sense of humor would probably be taken as literal poetry. It was. Crowley said that it was succeeding in causing dissent amongst the general populace. Aziraphale thought the prose was beautiful. He owned a signed copy; this was not of Crowley’s own volition. Or knowing. Most copies have been lost to time. _

Persephone had once tripped over Aziraphale’s robe, and after the angel apologized for letting it trail beside his chair whilst engrossed in the newest version of Antigone, was told by the girl that he was a “profound morosoph.” Insulted and mildly impressed with her vocabulary, he quickly realized that she had read and memorized poems of Saphos. Extensively. They hit it off well after that. He visited her booth at the market for free pastries. She held them out of his reach until he offered literature recommendations. 

She grinned, shaking the little bag of powdered bread in her hand before the angel. Her long, waist-length hair was pulled into a long braid, spilling over one shoulder. “I think I know that by now.”

Aziraphale huffed softly, but it lacked any actual admonishment. “Youth these days.” 

Her eyebrows jumped up and back down, and Aziraphale wondered how he associated solely with those who appeared to be sass incarnate. Persephone sweetened her tone. “Ask anyone, we youth know what’s going on better than Highest Sandal-Heel Cyril does. I bet that prissy thumbnail doesn’t know how to read a book. Hear he can read his sister pretty well, though.”

“Crude.”

“I’m the youth, I just repeat what I hear,” she said, waving him off. 

Though Aziraphale made a disapproving noise, he didn’t stop her. “Do you know that if someone hears you talk about the patriarch that way, you’ll be kindly escorted to the end of a blade?”

“Good thing it’s just you.” 

“I think I ought to be insulted, but I’m not sure I can pinpoint where you’ve done it.” 

She smiled sweetly, handing him another pastry for his troubles. “Let me know when you do.” 

Aziraphale sent her a withering look, but plucked the sweetbread from her hand. He paused, glancing up when a small crowd started to gather around a large statue of Pan, god of mischief (and, in Crowley’s opinion, fun).*

_*Alcohol. Pan was the god of alcohol. And general debauchery. There was once a time when one could lose themselves deep in a forest, drop their clothes, and it was completely normal for a woman with excited, kind of snake-ish eyes to join a bit of witchy midnight dancing. Their dancing was never all that good, whatever they show in the movies._

The crowd grew louder, and the squabble looked to be an even match for either side — although, with a larger group of people it became impossible to tell who was on whose side, if there could be something called sides here. Shouts became downright raucous, but merchants carried right on selling their wares beside them, as though it wasn’t happening. 

This was an everyday sight, growing more common in the few short years since Cyril arrived. People knew better than to cross the line and start a larger fight; instead, it became more often like watching kids wrestle in a schoolyard (except older, more impassioned, a few less brain cells). The cheering crowds who were egging whoever was fighting on were the same in both cases. 

A man shoved another out of the crowd and into the small space around them. It was impossible to hear what the two men were saying, but it hardly mattered. They were the kids about to wrestle in the metaphorical schoolyard, and space opened for them, attention drawn to their angry shouting. 

Muttering, Aziraphale made a small gesture. A woman walked into the makeshift ring, storming up to one of the men. She growled lowly, and the man looked suitably cowed. Throwing her chiton over her shoulder like a statement, she wrenched a fist into the man’s tunic and dragged him away, leaving a stunned assortment of people standing there in an awkward bunch. 

“What a time to get caught cheating on your wife,” said Persephone.

“Better than dead,” Aziraphale answered. He paused. “Er. Well, at least it was postponed a couple minutes for him.”

Shrugging, Persephone sorted out an order of unleavened bread and handed it to the man standing beside Aziraphale, who wandered away down to the other stalls. When it was within reason to believe no one would overhear their conversation, she leaned in. 

“I’ve heard a few things,” Persephone murmured, pulling Aziraphale’s focus to her and away from the people. He took a bite of the bread. 

“I’d be interested in hearing them,” said Aziraphale, expectant. 

“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow morning for Hypatia’s class.” Persephone purposefully looked towards the passers-by before pulling her eyes away from the growing crowd of people. 

“Oh, yes, of course,” said Aziraphale. Such was the trouble with covert informants, they all wanted to be covert. 

Persephone gave him a little wave when he stepped back to let the next man come forward to her booth, impatiently demanding the honeyed blueberries. At the very least, the girl had the sense to pretend she was a gentle soul in the general public. A large, billowing pot of lies, Aziraphale thought. 

The rude customer found himself bumped theatrically from behind by a slobbering camel passing through the crowded walkway, who set to eagerly chewing on his robes. 

Down the path towards the Serapeum some minutes later, Aziraphale paused. It felt a little bit like a ticking in his chest, but off from his heartbeat. It took him a few moments to realize that he was feeling the same sense of wrong that came with the first swing of swords between Rome and Carthage back in the Punic Wars, the rush of ire just before Menalaus sent off a thousand ships to Troy, victory or death on their lips. 

Aziraphale frowned. His lips thinned, he finished the sweetbread in his hand, and carried on down the path. 

_________

The Library of Alexandria as one might think of it burned down over four hundred years before Hypatia was born. Theon sat her on his lap when she was young, and he told her how his own father had seen it, worked at the census office next door to the grand white building. Scrolls were stacked up along the inside of the walls, placed in shelving that resembled catacombs. Dozens of people wandered in and out, and this is where first came the tradition of silence in a library — the surrounding space of something greater than oneself, where words were louder inside the mind than out. Hypatia could picture it so clearly, could smell the ink of freshly copied texts, the woody smell of papyrus and paper, a dozen times larger than the Serapeum was now. 

The Serapeum was the daughter of the Library of Alexandria. It was what remained, the remnants of salvaged knowledge. Smaller, growing, but never to return to the former site of knowledge that once sat on the west side of the city. 

The Lighthouse in the bay of Pharos was eventually named one of the seven ancient wonders of the world, but ask a historian where they’d go if they could time travel and you’ll find a fantastic portion of them will stop and look wistfully back in return. They’d be struck with a pang of grief that only comes from true loss, sorrow passed down from one generation to the next. “Do you know, I think I’d love to go back and see The Library of Alexandria,” they might answer. Then they might pause and add, “or I’d punch Christopher Columbus. One of the two.” 

The Serapeum was multiple things: a library, a school, a temple to the Pagan god Serapis. It was beautiful, and old, and it felt like home if you didn’t have one. Hypatia was something of a foster mother of an orphanage; it was her home, but she would share it with anyone who found solace there. 

The older scrolls were kept high, more away from the easy access of perusing scholars. Hypatia herself had some of those scrolls that once lived in the original library (not all necessarily with permission). 

It was one of these men in particular that often asked her to get a ladder and pull the more valuable and rare of these texts down for him. She had also never met someone quite as upset and stricken, outside of her father, about the destruction from hundreds of years past as the man who came from somewhere in Greece — she rather thought Aziraphale reminded her as some ancient Mycenean by the formal-but-not manner in which he spoke, and the interesting embroidered robes he wore that seemed rather archaic. Rather Greek to her, but few would have thought so if they didn’t take note of the stitching. 

Aziraphale told her he knew Theon, had a number of conversations and philosophical debates with him. She didn’t remember Aziraphale ever visiting when she was young, but Aziraphale often said things so like Theon did that she would never have doubted their friendship. Her father, once, made mention of a man from his youth — white hair, antiquated robes, a friendly way of speech that bordered on prim. 

He should have been at least as old as her father nowadays.

“I remember your father when we were younger boys,” Aziraphale said, when he appeared five years after her father’s funeral. He glanced past her into the house, through a wall that was once Theon’s study. “He was brilliant. I’m sure it’s been passed down to his daughter as well.”

I remember him describe you exactly as you look now, she didn’t say, I remember him wondering how you kept your youthful complexion. She welcomed him inside and smiled with a chuckle. “Please come in, dear. He said you might come around again one day, and said I should bring you straight to his old collection. There are some texts he wanted you to have.”

“Oh, splendid, I have some libations to share!” 

He was ever so sweet, and she thought that if one was to be some divine muse of the arts (or some sort of culinary nymph), it might as well be a tittering man who got too excited over Homeric verse.

Hypatia showed him the extensive notes Theon kept, which he read with focused abandon. She gave him a signed copy of Theon’s theories on Platonic philosophy and her own modest addendums to equations. 

“He also said I should offer you the recipe to the cake you liked the last time you visited.”

With that, Aziraphale came knocking whenever he found himself in Alexandria. She often spoke to him of the poems of old, the philosophers that kept her thinking, and mathematical equations that kept her calculating. And, there was a decent bonus: a great deal of men had chased after Hypatia over the years, but it comforted her to know she never had to be concerned with Aziraphale suddenly growing interested in her bosom. At least, based upon the small seedlings of details he’d told her of a dear friend, Aziraphale was busy chasing another tail. 

What she did not speak to him about was his purpose in the city, when he came to visit — it never came up, for whatever reason, despite wondering about it when he left again. 

This time, she had a very good feeling he was here for a reason. Hypatia reached up, grabbed a few scrolls containing the complete books of the Iliad, and gently placed them into her bag. Aziraphale would be wanting them. Then, barring a raised brow from one of her more outspoken pupils, she left the Serapeum and left down the path towards the city main. 

__________

When Aziraphale ran into Hypatia at the entrance of the Serapeum that evening, he smiled at her like the sun. 

Cake soon, then. 

“Hypatia, it’s been so long,” Aziraphale greeted, his voice warm as a fresh baked pastry. “I was so hoping I’d run into you while I was here, actually,” he said, like he hadn’t been planning on seeking her out intentionally.

She grinned, opening her arms wide to pull him into an embrace. He returned it, and she pulled him in tight for a moment before she released him. Hypatia’s hair curled down from where it was pinned to bounce against her shoulder, almost as animated as her body when she moved. 

“Far, far too long. My door is always open for you, my dear. What has you in the city this time?” Hypatia asked. 

“Ah, general errands. Taking part in some bureaucratic hullabaloo.”

“Hulla...baloo?” Her head tilted to the side, complete with a lopsided smirk. 

“Yes, precisely,” Aziraphale nodded and made a disregarding motion with a wave of his hand.

She patted his arm in a comforting manner, snorting under her breath. “I have missed your vernacular. I do hope said hullabaloo isn’t causing you too much stress.”

“Oh, you know how it goes.” He shrugged.

“Unfortunately, I do,” she agreed. “But, at least I only answer to myself.”

The immediate question on Aziraphale’s tongue died the minute he realized she was referring to someone else, and not himself. He wasn't certain how he felt about assuming, but took a moment to feel a little ashamed of thinking immediately of heaven. 

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Who do you mean?” 

“A friend of mine,” she answered, and for the first time, Aziraphale saw the wrinkles of worry at the corners of her eyes. 

Aziraphale hesitated. It wasn’t his business, but she never seemed to mind prying questions when they did come up. “Are you quite alright?” 

Hypatia’s smile faltered, but only just. There was clear gratitude in her face from Aziraphale asking. “I will be. Politics aren’t my thing, but then, they must be, because I keep finding myself with opinions on them. Not that I mind, of course. I only tend to appreciate thoughtful debate versus mindless flinging of metaphorical, potentially physical mud clumps.”

“I do wish I didn’t have to fuss as much with the politics of men these days,” Aziraphale said. “It does leave one with a bit of a headache. Particularly with this Cyril nonsense going on.” 

There was the distinct sensation that she was suddenly more interested, paying closer attention to Aziraphale’s words. Subtle, to be sure, but she had honed in on the details.

“Huh,” she said, and stepped back. Her gaze was drawn away from the Serapeum now, and more towards her house, toward the south of the city. “I know you must have been heading for the library, but would you be interested in dinner back at my home? It’s been ages, and I’d love to catch up.” 

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, who was hoping to grab a copy of the epic he wanted to read through from the library itself, but supposed this was more in line with his interests. Then all at once, he remembered a demon he’d promised to have dinner with. His voice was filled with regret. “Forgive me, I have a friend I’m meeting for dinner.”

Hypatia paused, sharp gaze studying at his expression closer as he spoke. Apparently, she saw something there because her eyes twinkled something bright, though he couldn’t fathom what it might have been. 

“Not a problem,” she answered. “Though if you happen to be free tomorrow, I was wondering if perhaps you’d be interested in attending my class tomorrow. There’s an interesting philosophical debate I was hoping to address with my students, but I think you might like to join us for a chat about it as well.”

“I was planning on dropping by your class tomorrow anyway,” Aziraphale said, but was pleased to be invited so openly. He paused thoughtfully. “But I did want to step into the library for a moment. Just planning on getting some light reading done,” he said, because he was already planning a great escape back to his lavish home for the Iliad and a warm bath after meeting with Crowley.

Her brows raised slightly, and he didn’t miss the way her eyes looked for something in his. “Of course. Perhaps we can chat tomorrow after class?”

“Certainly, I don’t see why not,” Aziraphale said, lighting up with the thought. 

“Wonderful,” she said. “You must tell me all about your travels when we do.” 

“A given.” Aziraphale paused before he added, “and you have to impart all your scholar gossip.”

“Tea and cake for dinner after that?” Hypatia grinned. 

Oh, she did know him so well. Aziraphale beamed. “Sounds lovely.”

Her warm brown eyes crinkled. They widened then, as if remembering something. “Oh! Here, I had the oddest sensation I should pick this up,” she said, and produced the thick scrolls sticking out from her bag. “The Iliad, if you should want it.”

Aziraphale blinked, gaping at her. His hands were suddenly filled with scrolls of manuscript, which he hurriedly balanced when they were pulled out and stacked in his arms. “What—”

“Are you going to the docks tonight?” she asked, brows raised, as if she hadn’t thrown him off at all.

“Um,” Aziraphale said, sucking in a breath when one of the scrolls nearly fell and he had to play catch with it. “I, uh, hadn’t planned on…?”

“I hear there’s a marvelous party going to be held on one of those fancy boats. A few of my students have been going on about it all day, and I swear I thought I’d have to evict them from my lecture.”

“But how did you—”

“Come now, you’re entirely a creature of habit,” Hypatia said, waving off his question. “Any hint that you’re near the city, I fully expect some large tomes to be borrowed for the length of your stay.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. The explanation only half made sense, but he was too taken off guard by her to question every aspect of what just transpired. He was almost certain she’d done it on purpose. Then his brows crinkled in confusion, unable to connect the dots to her mention of the docks. “Party?”

She nodded. A curl escaped from her updone hairstyle bounced as she did, and seemed to agree with her. “You’d have fun, I think. I think you’re someone who’d like dancing, aren’t you?”

“I don’t dance,” Aziraphale said, bewildered. “And I already had plans for this evening.”

Humming, Hypatia glanced past Aziraphale towards the Lighthouse of Pharos, eyes caught on the fire burning at the top of it, bright in the evening light. “Of course.”

Aziraphale frowned, looking over his shoulder, but he could never see exactly the same things she did.

__________

Except this time, when Aziraphale trekked about halfway home to drop the scrolls off before heading to meet a demon for dinner, stopped in his tracks.

Then he groaned. Loudly. 

“Oh, Crowley, you _didn’t.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone wants it, there's a playlist. 
> 
> [Songs to Accompany The Nice and Historically Inaccurate Fanfiction](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7ETQNqM8mgXc8bIK4fwn9Q?si=JsVRAA-dSt2GFylbjzn3GA)


	2. Guide to Being a Dickish Boss: How to Terrify Your Angel Coworker in Thirty Words or Less

The air of Alexandria felt the same as a couple hundred years prior, just before the original Library was set ablaze: tense, filled with the almost imperceptible auras wafting over the city like a grumbling stormcloud. Fear became hatred, which became motivation. And then the city burned. 

This time, Aziraphale arrived on account of humans being human. The city had fallen once; to hell if he let anything else fall while he stood by and watched it happen. 

A century passed. Then two more. Unrest built again, frothing up underwater like silt under careless feet, muddying the clear water until no one knew what lurked beneath. Now, the sensation of impending destruction crept in like it was inevitable. Aziraphale thought, thank you, but I would enjoy a bit of peacetime and a nice cup of tea instead. 

Despite his attempts to feel out demonic presence, Aziraphale sensed none. It was similar to the last time — no demons (save one, who was more wine-enthusiast than adversary), and there went his excuse to insert himself into the narrative before bad could get worse. 

But there were ways around that little “don’t interfere with humans” caveat.

It was upon returning to the city during one of his latter visits that Hypatia invited Aziraphale to attend one of her classes. He delighted in the opportunity and saw, in friendship, another opportunity. The woman was brilliant and one who shared her ideas without hesitation, expecting to receive the respect she deserved. 

He showed up on occasion with the intent to enjoy a good chat and a nice pan of cake that would appear in her servants’ oven, much to their dismay, but she never quite looked as surprised as one might expect. 

The one thing he never addressed when he appeared on her doorstep in want of intellectually stimulating conversation (and equally stimulating food) was the topic of his official job. If anyone asked, he was whatever people wanted to hear. Small, inconsequential miracles to deflect questions he didn’t want to answer was hardly enough for heaven to pay attention; however, when it came to particularly observant individuals, it took a little more than a slight of hand. Ever since he’d met Hypatia, Aziraphale avoided the chatter about his supposed station, or his methods of income. In the moment, using miracles to redirect her keen mind elsewhere was troublesome, but it worked out in his favor now. 

He didn’t like to think he was conniving in the textbook definition of the term; he’d only known in advance that mentioning politics on his end — namely, the suggestion of power when she wasn’t certain where Aziraphale’s political pull began and ended — and that throwing out a line about immediate issues might catch her interest. Crowley had once complimented Aziraphale on a similar tactic a couple hundred years ago, and used a peculiar, but nonetheless flattering phrasing to describe it. If he was correct, Hypatia now realized she might be able to utilize Aziraphale to gain a political edge; Aziraphale had tempted her with bait, caught her with a hook, and reeled her in. Or, it went something like that, anyway. 

All this cloak and dagger business truly was a bit out of his depth. He preferred standing back to watch humans scurry about, partake in laughter and friendship, but otherwise not interfere in their dealings. As a rule, he was content to enjoy what humans created, but let humans be human. 

Except. 

He’d learned over the course of thousands of years that remaining idle wasn’t to remain an inactive player either. Freewill was the darndest thing; Aziraphale, old as he was, learned a few new tricks from mankind over the last few millennia. 

And should a city like Alexandria be threatened by something not-so-demonic, Aziraphale was duty bound to let them have their freewill. 

Unless, of course, he spoke to one of the foremost members of society as a friend. If he shifted the political decisions any one direction, it was simply a matter of their freewill, in addition to information and motivation Aziraphale so conveniently provided. 

This, Aziraphale thought, was a better opportunity than he would have found in any other situation to do his real job. Or, some vague approximation of his job. 

It wasn’t that he disliked doing heaven’s work; on the contrary, he enjoyed performing miracles and sorting out small disputes. It was just — he wasn’t, exactly, necessarily in Alexandria on business dictated by the archangels. Of course, he was here in heaven’s name, doing goodwill in their name, expressing a suitable amount of interest in the humans as they went about their world; all of it, done as per his duty as Principality. 

Thing was, he’d heard that there were high tensions rising in the city.

The other thing was, he really liked their library.

He remembered the night the Library of Alexandria burned. He remembered, watching as the sky darkened with smoke, when the color orange screamed like hellfire. The screaming, wretched wailing during Cleopatra’s siege of the city still rung in his head over the years. There was horror, and then there was the loss of a thousand scholars collected into one place, the first true moment of human connection over a vast expanse of land and time. 

It was not hellfire that burned Alexandria. When fire burned that night, that was an entirely human moment.

Aziraphale returned to heaven in a panic with that orange color still alight behind his eyes. He remembered Gabriel, eyebrows furrowed, lips thinned into a look of confusion. “Why would you want to save a bunch of human objects?”

“Wha—it’s their knowledge! Hundreds of years of it,” Aziraphale said, floundering in the face of someone who didn’t understand. “You can’t just let them burn it away.”

Gabriel blinked, violet eyes sharp, studying. “It’s human, Aziraphale,” he said slowly, as if Aziraphale might be blanking on that fact. 

Aziraphale bit his lip. “It’s —” 

“Hell didn’t have anything to do with that one, did it?”

“Well, no, but,” Aziraphale started, but Gabriel was already shrugging.

“It’s a waste of our resources to intervene, then. They’re resilient, they’ll bounce back. Always do, those humans,” Gabriel said, smiling, and he patted Aziraphale’s arm awkwardly, like he didn’t know how to best placate an angel who cared about mortal things. He looked distracted, glancing around, trying to find an excuse to leave.

Aziraphale stepped back, lips falling open. He wanted to demand that they go down, show some heavenly grace, save the humans dying right now, the brilliant and beautiful humans, burning to death trying to save what was more important than themselves.

Gabriel, tried to walk around him, putting his fingers up in an excuse me motion. Aziraphale darted in front of him. 

“Gabriel. Please. I don’t come up for just anything, and I must insist that there is a very important reason to help the humans in this case,” Aziraphale’s voice was rushed, tacking on the polite tone in a last ditch effort. 

Gabriel stared back, brows meeting. “You’re pleading,” he said, thoughtful.

Heaven suddenly felt colder. The perfect white surrounding them was endless, like the floor might drop out from beneath him. “I—”

“What is your reason?” The question was short. Gabriel’s attention, having previously been anywhere besides Aziraphale, became sharp. Judgement, ready to cut, poised like a scythe behind unrelenting violet. 

Aziraphale’s mouth opened. He thought of the suffocating humans. He thought of his friends, the sweet people who shared their books, who offered him a place to sit and read beside. The people who wanted knowledge so much that they stopped ships arriving from all over the world to copy every book into a new, invaluable text for the library. The ingenious architecture, elegant marble walls and columns, shelves stacked to the brim with scrolls. The plays, the music, their comedy, the good in it all. 

But they were people. Angels were not people. 

He bit his tongue. It felt like he was choking on it. 

“Suppose I… don’t have one.” Behind his eyes, there was a library in flames.

Standing up straighter, stiff, Gabriel smiled. It was almost gentle. “You’re kind to the humans, doing your Principality. Thing. On earth.” He paused, shoulder shifting slightly, like he was suppressing a shudder. He cleared his throat. “That’s what we like to see. You’re doing a great job down… there.”

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale. 

Gabriel walked away. 

Few things motivate better than desperation; it was that last lifeline, clinging to one final hope. Humans did it all the time, and Aziraphale pretended he didn’t understand. 

Aziraphale didn’t stop himself, knowing that he would lose. 

“If I don’t involve you all, what if I just nip on down and—”

Gabriel faltered in his steps. 

There were a lot of things Aziraphale was afraid of. He had a nice and healthy fear of God, for example, but that sort of fear was intrinsic to her love as well. She was merciful when the occasion called for it, wrathful if humans angered Her with selfishness. Humans were capable of a more numbing, mindless cruelty a thousand times over. 

Or, that was how he’d chosen to see it. 

He had a fear of overcooked baking, of stains on his clothes, and finding himself in close proximity to small children. 

The way Gabriel turned back around, deliberate and inching, struck Aziraphale as the same way a curious bird might look at a cat that had mysteriously turned into a mouse. Puzzled, cautious, caught in deciding whether he was prey or predator. 

“We don’t interfere with humans, Aziraphale,” he started, slowly. “That’s part of the Great Plan. That’s what She does, up there. God doesn’t play games with the universe. You wouldn’t want to be… playing God, would you?” 

He said it, as though Aziraphale might be trying to cop his own hand, sit down at a poker table with Her, and slam down every chip he possessed. Or, that’s what it would have sounded, if Gabriel understood the concept of poker. 

But it was the incomprehension, the annoyed way Gabriel waited for him to answer. The way that humans lived beneath their feet — and they did, because they were angels, and heaven was so very high up — and knowing that all humans did mattered little in the scope of the universe. The way Aziraphale was acting, the way he felt a bit like insisting fruit flies were worth the time for a kidney transplant. 

He was meant to understand angels, not humans. Gabriel, in turn, couldn’t understand Aziraphale. 

And so, Aziraphale was afraid.

“Oh no, of course not, wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, instead of screaming. 

He returned to earth, and he watched. 

That was what Aziraphale pictured, when he imagined what hell might be like. He imagined books burning. 

__________  


Crowley, though he hated to admit it, was mildly out of his depth. Which was not to say he didn’t have the situation under control, it was only that he was a bit unable to figure out what Hell was planning, if anything. 

Trust only went so far down there, and sharing plots with other demons opened up the possibility of having said plot stolen, interfered with, or worse, ignored entirely when it came to fruition. So, no. No demons liked Crowley enough to share with the class, and they especially disliked the manner in which he caused said trouble — much to organized, they said, too premeditated, not destructive enough. 

The whole “mosey on up there and tempt away” kinds of instructions were both as unhelpful as they were completely welcome. In giving Crowley the freedom to plan out schemes and cause general discontent in the locals (he was in it for the long game, stretching out his demon-y will over the course of a few decades of a human’s life), he didn’t really have to do much. And, as a general rule, claimed human cruelty as his own on paperwork. It saved time and effort on his part — what was more demonic than cheating on your homework, anyhow? 

The single, infuriating problem with all this was that no one informed Crowley of anything. So as he sat atop the balcony of his rented home for the time being, wine in hand, he stared off into the Bay of Pharos. Like this, up high, it was easy to pretend there was no dissent amongst the masses. 

But he felt it the moment he walked into the city some two weeks prior, the overwhelming sensation of wrong. He’d seen human created conflict, witnessed the worst the world had to offer over the last couple thousand years, and still nothing felt so unnerving as this. 

And then Aziraphale showed up. 

Circumstances were a bit too coincidental to be called coincidental at that point, but Crowley was still busy figuring out who was plotting what. 

He sighed and hoisted himself up onto the white finished railing. Sharp, golden eyes looked out to where the towering lighthouse held its guiding fire above the city and called ships like a beacon to safety, poised in the sky like an arm raised, torch in hand. The sunset ebbed a warm orange across the sea, reflecting the color back against the city itself. 

Crowley frowned to himself, leaning up against the cool stone. 

Sometimes he felt like being above the city wasn’t actually the best place to be — after all, the higher you are, the harder you fall.* 

_ *Sometimes he thought he was funny. _

Down on the ground, one could see and hear things better, understand what was going on in a way that a bird’s eye view could never provide. But up high, it was that much easier to live in blissful ignorance. Sometimes, in certain moods, he thought he preferred the falseness of the high ground. 

“Right,” he muttered, mood soured. He threw back the rest of his drink. 

As far as he knew, Aziraphale was unaware that anything devilish was afoot — outside of Crowley’s nice new leather kicks he’d purchased recently. 

This was a double edged flaming sword. For one, it worked in his favor in that Aziraphale wouldn’t argue a ton with him if he thought he was futzing around with minor temptations. But on the other hand, the imperative nature of his request was clearly not striking the angel in any real fashion. If he hinted further at the imperative nature of the request, there was the danger of him staying out of concern, which was an even more terrible idea as a whole. 

The thing was, he didn’t know what was happening, only that something was. Not exactly ideal. 

“Come in,” Crowley called when he heard the knock. He reached for his glasses and slipped them on.

A girl of about twenty years slipped into the room behind him. He made no move to greet her, and remained lounging across the railing. “Hallo Bridget,” he said.

“It’s Briseis, asshole,” she said, and grabbed for the bottle of wine on the table. He’d left out the cheap stuff, so that was fine. 

“I’m paying you, I can call you what I want to.”

“I’m giving you information, you can afford me the correct name,” she answered, and took a long swig. “Besides, you asked me an extra favor. I don’t just “keep an eye” on people. I have a life, thanks.” 

“That’s a nice thought,” Crowley said, who was thinking more about impending disaster than insulting a young, social woman with an extensive contact list.

“Look,” Briseis said. “Look. I’m here to shove information at you so that my city — which has some very nice shopping centers, mind you, stays intact.” 

“Great,” Crowley said, gesturing at her. “So, tell me what you know.”

“Money first.” She held out a prim hand.

He tossed her a small bag of jingling coins. She didn’t even need the extra money: Briseis was wealthy enough to commission busts of her face if she wanted to. It was the principle of the matter, holding some form of power over another person, the game of give and take. A small form of rebellion in a younger age, but she was good at it, and Crowley understood the need for freedom all too well. 

Crowley made a go ahead motion with his hand. “Half now, half after. Now spill, kid.”

Briseis’ dark eyes glared for a long moment. He could almost see her choose to pick her battles before huffing indignantly and letting the name-calling go. “I overheard some of the forum talking about someone possibly influencing Cyril and his decisions. I think he might be right, because I hung around the forum and saw the asshole himself hanging out there and haunting the halls as if he’d got nothing better to do. Like secret meetings, you know the like.”

“Fantastic, I love covert operations,” muttered Crowley. 

Brisesis raised a brow, gestured vaguely between the two of them.

“Well,” he amended, “I hate other people having secret meetings, not me.”

“Seems slightly hypocritical to me but I’ll let it go,” she answered, dropping the pouch of coins into her bag. “But yeah, it’s still gonna be hard to find some stuff on the guy. He’s got dirt trails following him everywhere, but twice as many followers sweeping it up as he goes.”

“Only if you’re sure you can handle it,” Crowley said, grin quirking up. 

She looked offended. “Course I will, what do you take me for? Never failed you and your ridiculous, near traitorous requests before,” said Briseis, who lifted the bottle to her lips. 

Crowley shrugged, leaning back to rest against the white stone. He took a sip of wine, and then swirled it around in his glass a few times. From here, he could see The Lighthouse burning bright, the answering torches from ships too far out on the horizon to see more than a tiny, flickering light over the water. All roads may have led to Rome, but all ships took port at Alexandria. 

“Uh, you good?” Briseis asked. “Usually your brevity and wit are better held together than the wet piece of parchment your brain seems to have presently chosen as a state of being.”

Rolling his eyes, Crowley shifted so that he was facing her, letting his leg down so that they swung a few inches above the balcony floor. 

“Careful, or I’d think you’d have asked something nice. Sort of, in a roundabout way,” he said, and waved off the question. “Nah, lot on my mind. I’ve got about two dozen hoity-toity members of society to entertain tonight.”

“Oh, party is tonight then?” Briseis said, oh-so-subtly, though it was spoken more than asked, complete with a glimmer of excitement in her eyes. 

“Yup.” Crowley took a long sip of his wine.

She waited, brows raised in expectation. He stared back through dark lenses. It wasn’t like Crowley wasn’t going to invite her, but he was also planning on being halfway productive during this rendezvous with the city elite. She tended to make social situations escalate into fights, or debauchery, or reckless abandon. Crowley honestly thought she’d make a pretty good demon. Or, just an impressively rowdy young adult. College wasn’t a thing yet, but she’d have thrived in a sorority. 

Crowley sighed. “Yeah, whatever, come aboard and drink something later. Don’t interfere with anyone I’m talking to, ‘kay?”

Briseis grinned smugly, like she’d won. “‘Course.”

There was no real talking her out of anything when she got her mind set to it, which was both the reason Crowley put her to finding out information (along with her being younger — no one expects kids in subterfuge) and also why he tried to avoid fighting outright with her. He hadn’t gotten in that situation too much, but he was sure he’d only win the argument half the time. 

“Right then, you have your payment, now shoo along.”

“After dusk?”

Crowley grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yes, yes, fine. Cause any trouble and you’re getting sent home.”

Briseis scoffed, tilting her head up. “Good luck with that.”

“Just do the thing I’m paying you for.” Crowley shooed her out posthaste, letting out a long, drawn out breath. He wanted more wine, but it wouldn’t do to stumble like an idiot out to the docks.

And that’s how she left, with her pockets fuller, and with Crowley sighing deeply into his wine glass. He supposed he’d need to change soon, if he was to host any decent gathering in debauchery with some sort of grace. For a demon who lived in a six-thousand year long demon fashion show, Rome never let down on clothing trends.

When the sun set, he finished off his drink and snapped his fingers to dress in something dark, long, and suitably crimson. 


	3. There's a Lot of Wine Being Drunk In This Chapter

Before the advent of more obviously fun pieces of manmade technological advances, like the ansaphone or flashy cars, there were simpler, but no less interesting bits of human invention. Glass and jewelry offered options for prideful display, which was brilliant for demons who enjoyed tempting, and inducing gold and silver gilded jealousy, and also looking stylish while he worked. 

There was also the arts — already sinful enough without Crowley’s help, although he liked to give things his own demonic blessing damning approval anyway. Then there were things like the wheel and the catapult: the world’s first pumpkin chunkin’ competition was the result of a very bored demon who had been very wronged by a disappointing crop, an unfortunately burnt pie, and a rage further fueled by a sudden hatred of the color orange.

But before all of that, even before the wheel, humans figured out that they really liked water. The first few attempts at deafaring were about as abysmal as one might expect for a species of decidedly not-floaty bi-peds who hadn’t yet produced Charles Darwin or his awards. 

The second and third attempts at bobbing around on the open ocean caught them some fish, and as they floated around a little better, caught marginally bigger fish. Then, as all things must do, boat-building was passed into the loving hands of capitalism. Explorers explored and paved the way for money, merchants merched, and spices and jewels and language were passed around like a hot-potato.*

_ *Or exactly like one, actually, because potatoes were suddenly very popular across the Fertile Crescent, and was indeed a hot commodity at the time.  _

If your sole job on earth just so happened to be fomenting greed, lust, and a couple other vices, your job started getting done for you. It was precisely this combination of feigned job-doing and general interest in the more thought-provoking, somewhat clever, and overall aesthetically pleasing pieces of technology that lead the ever trend-setting demon Crowley into purchasing a finely crafted Roman merchant vessel. 

He’d always found little hobbies to occupy his time over the millennia, like winemaking or joining exclusive clubs that seemed fun. Or at least, where the people seemed fun. Most of the time they were, granted that humans didn’t do that very human thing and start killing people off to feel included. The point being that Crowley liked social groups, and he liked parties. 

And, before there were yacht clubs, there was a Crowley. He liked to kick it with the city elite. And, as much as he loved his boat (it was big and luxurious with an open floor plan for mingling and dancing), he hadn’t initially seen the purpose of naming it. Naming it well, anyway. And so the official name flip-flopped between things like  _ Speed Demon _ , and  _ Shellish Revenge, _ and at some point devolved to  _ Titan Uranus.* _

_ *Okay, so that one ended up feeling weird knowing that it was actually Michael who created those celestial... bits. Plus, no one in 415 AD got the joke except Aziraphale, and the angel didn’t fully appreciate his humor. Also Michael is a wanker. _

Once the prepubescent snickering was done with, he bothered to think a bit more about it. When he did come up with a name to put neatly on the paperwork, he decided that he was very clever indeed. To The Fairest was christened (or… damned, he supposed) on a night of extraordinary drinking before an angel, a demon, and a couple dozen of said demon’s closest friends. He remembered at least six of their names anyway, and thought that was a fairly decent ratio. 

_ To The Fairest _ was Crowley’s pride and joy. She was made of the finest, most luxurious materials money could buy, painted in particularly hard to get shades of red and black. The wooden scaffolding was made from cedar, the hull built from oak, and Crowley babied every inch of it. 

Which was what he was telling one of his fancy friends — nice man, bit overbearing, forgot his name — about the many different aspects that went into commissioning his ship to be built, complete with all the excessive money he spent on it. Until they were interrupted by a voice, which upon registering, sent Crowley onto his feet, ready to bolt. 

_ "Crowley,” _ Aziraphale called, stalking across the short bridge onto the boat. 

“Crud,” said Crowley. 

He pretended he didn’t hear, ducking between two chatting men who barely raised a curious eye at the way he most certainly wasn’t avoiding. There were quite a few people amassed on the boat, so he could be pardoned for having missed the admonishing tone the angel liked to use when he was annoyed-but-not-really-that-annoyed at certain troublemaking demons. There was, however, no escaping a vengeful (or rather, slightly peeved) angel’s comeuppance. 

So when Aziraphale marched over and crossed his arms, chin raised with pure judgement, Crowley was lounging nonchalantly back against one of the stacked wooden crates he’d recently filled with large jugs of wine and the world’s highest quality olive oil. Settling his demonic base of operations around the breadbasket and largest trading port of the Mediterranean afforded one some perks. 

“Oh, hey there angel,” Crowley said, very cool. “How’s your night going?”

“Meet me later, says the demon, we can have a nice quiet evening of exuberant drinking and chitchat over fine food,” Aziraphale mocked. He glared with sharp blue eyes. 

Crowley hummed a disagreeing sound. “You’ve used at least two words that would never leave my mouth, on top of paraphrasing to high… Hell,” he said, which earned him an unimpressed look.

“Paraphrasing,” Aziraphale repeated blandly.

Crowley wished he’d chosen to get some more wine before Aziraphale showed up, because no one could look nearly as put-together and suave leaning against a crate without. Crowley glanced upward, nose crinkling as if trying to recall exact wording. “I think I said, come to my boat, we’ll talk over a job swap. Implied was the wine and food. You just assumed it was going to be, erm, not a party.” 

There were two dozen people on that boat, all of them wearing jewelry that would have made a merchant swim across the Nile and all its crocodiles to sell to an aristocrat. Whilst naked. And all of them were crowding around one another, forming little cliques of three or four people in respective groups around the boat. Aziraphale was sure there was some sort of human social behavior he could be studying right about now. Their loud voices, however, all coalesced into a loud mess of indecipherable noise that echoed out across the water.

“You’re certainly winning me over with your presentation of selfless consideration here,” said Aziraphale, grumbling unhappily, taken to glaring with renewed vigor in the direction of a woman who passed by and bumped his shoulder. 

Crowley scoffed. “Come on angel, lighten up. You’re the socialite of that little scholar club, yeah?”

“A club, really? You’re digging yourself deeper, and here I thought your whole… demon-y schtick was that you couldn’t go lower.”

“Gee, thanks. Er, how about a community?” Crowley tried, using his near pouting expression Aziraphale once told him he possessed. Sometimes, he found, it worked to his advantage. 

“Perhaps, but you could do better to impress me here. There’s a small potential to make some of your wrongs up to me,” Aziraphale said, taking note of when the serving girl — giggling and curly hair — strolled by as she chatted along with a second girl, both laden with a heavy tray filled with small cups of wine and some earlier form of beer.

The angel reached out to pluck a glass from the tray, bringing it to his lips and sipping at the red liquor, scowl still evident.

“Oh stop being prickly. You like people,” Crowley said, mirroring the other’s action to grab wine, smirking over it while he swirled it around in his glass. “You enjoy the lesser, humbler bits of earth. The company isn’t all that bad.”

Aziraphale sniffed, stepping away so that he could lean his back against the railing. He was comfortable on the ship, often enough companions when they both managed to find themselves in the same neck of the woods, and it was hardly the first time he’d spent a night drinking aboard the deck. 

Aziraphale cleared his throat and amended, “I like people, not rip-roaring political figures who congregate together on a boat to pretend they won’t try and kill each other come morning.”

“Kumbaya?” Crowley said, and settled against the wood beside Aziraphale, who lifted a glass in an  _ I’ll toast to that  _ motion _ .  _

Aziraphale muttered under his breath, “Even if the chosen company takes pleasure in throwing parties without feeling the need to inform more peace inclined guests.”

_ *But there is also a lie there, because Aziraphale was, indeed, a socialite. He crashed parties and chatted idly away with anyone willing enough to listen and partake in a riveting conversation about fine wines or the latest celebrity gossip (which Aziraphale absolutely did not admit to, lest he commit some sin of speaking behind one’s neighbor’s back. Not explicitly stated as an Angels Don’t Do That rule, but implied nonetheless) and he was known on occasion to sway to music and hum along to pieces he knew. This was particularly intriguing to demons who also knew the rules of proper angelic etiquette, and that defining an angel by their lack creative endeavors threw Aziraphale into a box messily labeled as Out Of The Ordinary. _

Crowley shrugged. “Still a demon, still gotta thwart you somehow. Inconveniences add up you know, one day it’ll be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.”

Aziraphale chuckled, turning his head to look at Crowley. Then he lifted his glass and clinked them together. Laughter of a few men across the deck rang out, accompanied by the delighted tittering if girls who just got flirted with. At least the party wasn’t a dead one. 

This was familiar too, when Aziraphale shrugged and turned around, crossing his arms over the wooden ledge to overlook Alexandria. 

Aziraphale did that on occasion, pointedly turning his back to Crowley. 

If Aziraphale needed the reminder that there was no great plan here, no overarching plot to drag an angel down to hell — well, in the beginning Crowley thought the open back to his supposed enemy gave Aziraphale reassurance that Crowley was really just a terrible demon. He’d sooner sink his own ship than harm Aziraphale. Or anyone, for that matter. 

It was an interesting behavior to witness taking place. It was like Aziraphale was testing, playing a game with himself — but because Crowley some small amount of intelligence to speak of, he recognized it as an action that didn’t so much question Crowley’s evil intent as showcase an angel’s own sort of clever rebellion against Heaven. Aziraphale, like a teenager under vigilant parental supervision, got very good at bending rules in his favor. 

There was nothing sinful about trust. It was a very angelic trait. What could possibly be wrong about turning his back? And yet, that freely trust was proving Heaven wrong. 

A dangerous game to play, perhaps, but he hadn’t fallen yet. If Aziraphale made it this far testing those boundaries and making questionable decisions, Crowley figured he was probably safe. 

Crowley stepped closer, crossing his arms over the railing beside Aziraphale. The view from _To The Fairest_ changed as their stations did over the past few years, but the peaceful sensation of shared company never did. The constancy in the ever-changing world was refreshing.* 

_ *One thing they’d look back on through the millennia and in years to come, the decent parts of living under Roman rule for such a long while was sometimes equated to how brilliant the parties were. Aziraphale was one who enjoyed the yearly celebration of Lupal, wherein there was much drinking, and most everyone was willing to chat with everyone during those nights. He was there mostly for the chatting, despite the festivities being dedicated to the carnal inclinations of mankind. Mostly. _

Crowley was comparatively new in these parts, having been shipped off to Mesopotamia to handle some bloody argument between kings for a couple hundred years. Aziraphale was in Rome when they met up again, and both grumbling and irritated, they’d commiserated over some goat cheese thing Aziraphale had been obsessed with at the moment. But one perk of returning to a city under Roman rule, they did quite a bit of the “bloodying” bits themselves. 

And between the two of them immersing themselves in the finery of Rome, relaxing on the edge of the boat, they were quite content allowing humans to do as they pleased. 

But now there was the budding civil war that endangered that way of life, the precious knowledge of the world, and lives of humans. 

Crowley brought his glass back to his lips, pulling back only to swirl it in his glass as he looked out over the still bay. Right, company was not the purpose of the evening. 

“So what does bring you around to these parts nowadays, angel?” Crowley asked, brows raised up in that expressive way of his that made up for his concealed eyes. It was an endearing trait, that one facial feature could make up for another in such a clear manner. 

“Politics,” Aziraphale muttered. Even here, Aziraphale was surrounded by men Crowley knew who frequented the forum, and he clearly questioned Crowley’s choice of company. Not too much, considering the whole ‘demon from hell’ aspect, and given that the angel still deigned to hang around him. 

“Ah. Er, yes, the same for me. Though like I said, I’ve got something afoot in Rome, and if you’re at all amenable—” 

“I’m not,” said Aziraphale.

“—there’s some brilliant opportunities for some blessings while you’re at it—”   
“After I do your tempting.”

“After just one tiny temptation.” Crowley pinched his fingers together for effect.

“I am an angel, not some wishy-washy demon who lives in the grey area like  _ some _ people.”

Crowley groaned. He losing ground on the argument before the conversation had even begun. “But what’s one temptation against a dozen blessings? So long as my end is done, temptation performed, you can do all you wish to fix it,” he said.

Aziraphale paused, frowning into his drink. “And what exactly are you avoiding there?”

Crowley, as good a liar as he was (he wasn’t), chose to give as close to the truth as possible. As much as he was terrible at the act of lying straight up, particularly to a nosy angel who prided himself on being all-seeing (he wasn’t), Crowley was brilliant in the art of deflection and misdirection. If one was leading the conversation to a topic rather avoided, all one had to do was throw a reference to a topic said person enjoyed. It may have been that Crowley was just good at dancing around Aziraphale’s prying inquiries and utterly transparent to others, not that he would ever know one way or another. 

“There’s some demons out and about who specifically don’t like me right now,” Crowley said, which wasn’t technically a lie. Demons didn’t usually like him as a general rule. 

There were a few inconsequential demons stationed somewhere around there. Though, last he heard they were somewhere in the outskirts of the city orchestrating disputes between olive farmers. 

Aziraphale’s brows drew together, his icy blue eyes melting into a summer lake. They flickered back and forth between Crowley’s, searching, feigned ire forgotten. “Are you in danger?”

“What? Oh, uh, no,” Crowley said, back stiffening. “No danger, just avoiding some unpleasant coworkers.”

Aziraphale didn’t look like he at all believed Crowley. The demon suddenly, irrevocably felt like a heel. 

“I may not look it, but I can ruffle a few feathers, intimidate a few ghoulish miscreants. I mean, should you have need of it,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley was well aware of that fact, despite how easy it was to forget. He was certain that Aziraphale could handle himself with lesser demons — that Principality title had some implications of power to back it up, as terrible as the angel was at actually guarding a wall. It was one reason Crowley was fine (or not “fine,” per se, but comparatively so to the alternative) with convincing Aziraphale he needed to head off to Rome where demons crawled out and about. Besides, Aziraphale, should he agree, probably wouldn’t be able to find the other demons if he tried, and vice versa; it was Rome. 

Even if it were possible when Rome was a gigantic city of a million people, Aziraphale mentioned at one time or another fighting in The War way back when. Usually if Crowley got that much out of him, the angel was beyond sloshed, but it was possible to extrapolate information. It came out, once or twice, a vague mention of the front lines. 

Crowley never asked farther than that. Sometimes he wondered what stayed Aziraphale’s hand when a demon waltzed up to him on the wall of Eden — and the more he got to know Aziraphale, the luckier he considered himself at that first meeting. 

Aziraphale waited, brow raised expectantly.

“No need for that, angel,” Crowley said.

“If you’re certain,” Aziraphale answered, tapping his glass with his finger in thrummed patterns. He hesitated, tongue pressed into his cheek as though holding back what he actually wanted to say. Crowley waited, scratching the wood of the railing. 

Aziraphale seemed to come to a conclusion, because he shifted so he faced Crowley, hip pressed into the sturdy side of the boat. “Hypothetically. Supposing a demon did get himself into trouble that required a more... immutable touch, it would be highly demonic an act to turn holy attention upon his enemies.”

After living for thousands of years, there were few things that held the power to startle an immortal being. Having an angel none-so-subtly suggest he would smite the hell (pun intended) out of whomever caused Crowley issue fell very neatly under that category. 

“What,” said Crowley, who was grateful his wine wasn’t anywhere near his mouth lest it be spat across Pharos Bay. 

It was also that, after living for thousands of years, blushing became rather extraneous when there were only so many things one could do to embarrass themselves. The two of them seemed to find increasingly ridiculous new ways to do so, however. 

Aziraphale flushed, cheeks just pink enough that the wine could not longer be blamed. “Hypothetically. Don’t think too deeply about it, dear boy.”

Crowley stared. He cleared his throat, grappling for some small piece of normalcy back into this conversation. He settled for mumbling into his drink. Sarcasm. Sarcasm was familiar, more commonly tread ground. A good fix-it for anything. “Eager to jump on violence, are you?”

Aziraphale tisked. “Actually, I think it’d be considered doing my job.”

Crowley was not drunk enough for this. He resolved to fix the problem, and gestured to the stocks of wine and barrels of mead that he’d pulled out for the sake of holding a decent party. Speaking to the angel while sober only encouraged said idiot angel to make poor decisions regarding Crowley, which was all the more reason they both needed to be more inebriated than they were right now. After that small declaration, Crowley was further made certain that Aziraphale could be nowhere near Alexandria when it all went to shit. 

Crowley stepped back, tipping his glass towards the groups of people mingling about. He smirked, watching Aziraphale’s sudden shift of expression into what was closer to wary. Crowley, though it was to a lesser extent, collected plenty of things throughout the many years he’d lived upon the earth. He had his human inventions, the latest and greatest. He’d just about had a conniption when the wheel was invented — useful thing, that. 

What he collected beyond alcohol and an assortment of fine art was musical instruments. Couldn’t help it, really. He was a professional in temptation. All of the above, artistic and creative endeavors could be used to cause trouble, lead humans from one poor decision to another. Alternatively, and perhaps more truthful to the heart of the matter, they were enjoyable things to be had. 

So Crowley snapped his fingers. 

The top of a crate popped open and fell to the side, and to anyone who’d been viewing it from a mortal perspective, it looked as though it the seam had just given out — to Aziraphale, judging by expression alone, it looked like a ridiculous and unnecessary use of power. Well, good. 

“Oh, how could I have forgotten to show my beautiful collection of instruments?” Crowley asked aloud, specifically in the direction of at least three men and women he knew to be fantastic performers and definitely hadn’t invited them onto his boat for any ulterior motive. 

“Do you know, you could just ask them to play,” said Aziraphale. 

Crowley waved him off. 

“Then I’d have to pay them,” he replied under his breath. Crowley winked, reaching over to take a small flute into his hands, successfully catching the eager eyes of his quarry. “Brilliant little thing, this,” he said, louder. “Shame to own it and for it to remain unused, I’m a terrible player.”

That was a lie. Crowley knew Aziraphale had heard him play a dozen instruments, which did earn him an unimpressed-yet-vaguely-amused expression when he glanced over. Practiced with varying amounts of prowess, certainly, but an ear for tune was not something Crowley lacked. 

“Wouldn’t mind giving it a go myself, if you’d be so willing,” said a wiry man Crowley knew as Polybius, one of the less annoying creatures of senate.

Crowley looked like a cat who’d caught an catnip-filled ball of yarn. “Only if you’re careful with it.”

And so three others jumped in, reaching for instruments carefully packed into the box (but not too carefully, like they’d been laid out for easy access). A couple tibia flutes were passed around for their wind section, a sistrum that chimed and rattled as their brass, a lyre as their string. 

And, before the second round of spirits were served, they had a rudimentary band on deck. 

“Ridiculous,” Aziraphale said, and drank more wine.

The small group huddled together for a moment, giggles and short snorts of laughter breaking out between them. Crowley could almost feel their excitement, the same way he felt when he played in front of others. The eagerness to show off to a captive audience, the exuberance of the actual playing and feeling one’s own fingers dance across an object to make it sing. In some things, in so very human things, Crowley was reminded that there were shared experiences between humans and angels and demons. 

Crowley returned, taking up his place again beside Aziraphale. “See? Free entertainment.”

“Interesting little plot when you can miracle up money for the best performers in the city at any given moment,” Aziraphale said, who was clearly stifling a smile. 

“Not the entertainment I was referring to. Some things you can’t buy, cheapens the whole thing,” answered Crowley, who felt a pang of endearing warmth in his chest at the baffled, slightly owlish look Aziraphale gave him in return. 

It was the same one whenever Aziraphale had to puzzle something out. It was his brows that were half raised, half drawn together like curtains to his mind while he analyzed and made sense of whatever it was that stumped him. It was the way his lips pressed firmly together and pulled to one side, the sort of mistrusting look he gave back to Crowley when he suspected treachery (and Crowley did spout odd comments just to get a rise, so that was fair and definitely warranted). 

It was those little details, like leaving a worn bookmark in a favorite poem, that Crowley found he wanted to read over and over and over again. 

Crowley took pity and dipped his head forward towards the musicians. They spread out before their audience, taking places beside one another, smiles wide and limbs thrumming with energy. Aziraphale raised a brow, glancing over to them and back to Crowley.

That was one thing he never minded doing either, giving Aziraphale whatever puzzle pieces he hadn’t yet collected himself — which he always did given half the chance, but Crowley inevitably had different life experience, knew things Aziraphale didn’t, and vice versa. 

Aziraphale’s intense gaze turned to watch the ragtag group, searching for a conspiratorial plot of Crowley’s devising. 

The musicians tested the waters with a few soft notes, all unpracticed and awkward with one another, unfamiliar with the instruments in their hands. Accompanied with simple scales were snorts of laughter, teasing comments to one another, crinkled noses of concentration. The thing was, Crowley had realized after making friends with humans throughout the years of various artistic pursuits and hundreds of insightful interactions, that people really liked people. Or rather, people liked when people understood people. 

Crowley had a better grasp of art following that realization, and it trickled into every interaction with humans since. 

Aziraphale, for example, took to literature like he’d invented it.* But here, Crowley’s insinuation that his haphazard plan of throwing musicians together had a further purpose than saving a few coin offered a mental challenge that only immortals knew how to play. 

_*He didn’t invent it, though he knew the man who did. The first written word of the human race was a phrase carved into a cuneiform tablet: _

_ mine duty to record the words of this king/ he knows not how to read/ I write anything upon this clay/ he will continue to speak/ there be rat in the corner of this room/ there be rat in other corner/ they begin war for territory of opposing corners/ I side with the left/ this rat chews clothing of king/ gods strike me down/ he is still speaking/ _

A few minutes passed until they settled on a song they all knew. It started slow and it took some quick fumbling to get into tune and play together with any amount of synergy. When they did, it came together in the way of friends meeting friends after a long while without their company, excited and flustered and slightly tongue-tied to start before it mellowed, falling into a pattern of familiarity. The notes of the song were learned by each musician independently, each instrument and musician inputting their differences and personal flair to the piece. 

The music was messy, occasionally offbeat, and lacked cohesive structure. It was loose and warm and wonderful.

All at once there was the release of the tense muscles in Aziraphale’s face, replaced by a knowing smile and open expression, understanding lighting his eyes. “Oh. Crowley, dear boy, you're such a sap.”

“‘m not,” Crowley said, very much a sap. He settled back and swallowed significantly more wine to cover the heat that bloomed in his cheeks, listening to the soft beats of a familiar song he’d heard around the neighboring cities for years. 

It was the way Aziraphale could understand what Crowley meant with nothing more than the tip of his head, how their eyes could snap to one another and know why they had. It was the way that, within seconds, Aziraphale could go from annoyed and cautious straight to warm and utterly trusting.

What Aziraphale possessed was some sort of talent, Crowley was certain, to jump between faces like Janis and flip between expressions like masks of a stage play. But for all that Aziraphale acted and made himself a dozen roles to fill, Crowley felt the truth in them all. Not one of them was false, only different facets of a cut gemstone. 

Then there was dancing. It started with one, a man letting out a whoop and calling, “I came not for standing about!” 

Laughter followed, as did the pounding of feet against the wooden deck. The women were outnumbered by the men, but it hardly seemed to matter to them when choosing partners. 

Crowley smirked, waggling his eyebrows at Aziraphale. “When in Rome.” 

“Hardly. A hundred miles from here, actually,” Aziraphale answered. 

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Rome adjacent. You joining them?”

“No,” answered Aziraphale stiffly. He paused, looking over Crowley in odd manner he was unfamiliar with. “Are you?”

He hadn’t been expecting the question. Crowley blinked, glancing back towards the group tap-dancing like newborn deer even without the alcohol in their systems yet — they were all just terrible dancers. For a distracted moment, he wondered if Aziraphale was asking so as to see if he might join Crowley in a dance, but brushed away the thought. Angels, as Crowley was told, didn’t dance. 

“Um,” he said. “Hadn’t planned on it.”

“You invited them here. You should,” said Aziraphale, softer than he normally spoke. It was enough to make Crowley look at him, curious. It wasn’t the first time Aziraphale took a tone that Crowley didn’t understand, but it was just one more piece to the puzzle Crowley had yet to even begin to understand. Not for lack of trying either, seeing as he’d been at it for six thousand years. 

“I don’t really dance. There was one incident down in Hell, involved Pontius Pilot and Calligula making a mess of the file section, Dagon losing her absolute shit, and a lot of terrible drum playing. Did you know drinking contests are a Hell thing? Like, invented down there. Because they are.”

There was a decisive scoff in response. Aziraphale had that look on his face that meant he was secretly amused but didn’t want to admit he was. “Is that so?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, because Azirapahle’s eyes sparkled like the glass he held in his hand. “So no. Dancing, not my thing.”

Aziraphale hummed under his breath. He took a sip of his wine. “Pity. Could have done with the entertainment.”

Crowley made an affronted noise, waving his hand in front of his face. “Okay, rude.” 

“All in good fun, my dear,” Aziraphale answered with a smirk. 

“All in good fun,” Crowley mocked, his free hand mouthing the words, and stepped far back out of reach when an angel tried to whack his arm. He laughed, lifting his glass higher so it didn’t spill. “Oi, you’re supposed to be a good, non-violent angel.”

“I thought you were under the impression that I could do nothing wrong.” 

“Did you miss the sarcasm in that entire conversation?” Crowley answered, thrown suddenly back to their very first meeting (though that very first comment was referenced in a hundred following conversations), and was reminded again that Aziraphale was an oddity. Anyone else would have most certainly done the right thing, knocked a demon off the edge of the wall sans wings. 

The conversation was accompanied by a light dancing tune, meant more for frollicing in the forest or something like that. Aziraphale shifted so he could turn fully and watch the people on the boat fling themselves into wild abandon, though it’d be hard to call it actual dancing. His foot began to tap, because the music was at least very good, and Crowley honed in on the motion like a bird of prey. 

“Don’t dance, hm? You look like you’re quite into the rhythm.”

The tapping stopped. Aziraphale lowered a glare at him for the comment, but it gave Crowley no real pause. 

“I don’t,” said Aziraphale. “But I can appreciate music.”

A dangerous comment when it gave Crowley ammunition. He looked like he knew what he’d done too, because Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed. 

Crowley cleared his throat, raising his eyebrows innocently. “By… moving your body to it?” 

“Oh, do shut up.”

Crowley snorted, laughing into his drink. It was part of their banter, the pattern familiar and worn. Two steps forward, two steps back, twisting around one another’s words. Sidestep, rest, slow-quick-quick, throw in an insult, turn. Six thousand years, and the angel still tried to say he didn’t dance. 

“Not too late, angel, could dance. I know you want to,” Crowley teased.

He watched as Aziraphale hesitated, studying the movement of the people dancing about. It was in that moment that Crowley realized just how much Aziraphale truly did want to join in — and that it was a choice he was making not to do so. 

“Best not,” Aziraphale replied, fingers running along the golden ring of his pinky finger. “Simply not done.”

“Not by angels?” Crowley asked, getting the distinct sense of where this trepidation was coming from. He’d always known Heaven as an oppressive place, but good grief, this was the result of thousands of years of conditioning. To adhere to the expectation, despite there not being any reason for such rules, to question everything, but fear the consequences so much not to act upon them. 

“No,” Aziraphale murmured. “Not by angels.”

Crowley almost grabbed Aziraphale’s hands and would have dragged him out to the floor right then and there if not for the distinct possibility that the angel might disappear for the next hundred years for being pushed too far in a direction he wasn’t prepared to go. It’d happened before, wasn’t super fun, didn’t want to repeat the experience. 

“Oh,” was what Crowley said instead. 

The conversation tapered into a comfortable silence. Crowley made no effort to join the actual party portion of his own party, but he’d always liked the energy of them. Once, Aziraphale asked him if he got some sort of demonic energy boost from holding raucous parties filled with debauchery — untrue, but he didn’t need angels wandering around thinking he liked the company. Crowley answered with utmost intelligence. He’d panicked, and said, “of course,” and for some reason, Aziraphale hadn’t even looked disappointed. In fact, he looked pleased with the answer he received, and responded to every following invitation with an RSVP. It didn’t occur to him until years later that Aziraphale had just gotten very good at reading him. 

“Suppose I could do with another,” Crowley said, and looked out over the dock to the city. It was peaceful at night, like there was nothing brewing beneath the surface. He supposed that was what most cities did, brew and brew until a lot of murder happened. 

The musicians had begun dancing along with their audience, their feet tapping in time as they moved across the deck, pulling others into a mess of swaying bodies. The song was one they could all stomp their feet to, an upbeat jig that most people knew from sailors singing a dozen different lyrics from twice as many ports — the sound was distinctly Egyptian, but adopted the hard Roman beats over time. The energy was contagious, though Crowley got a kick out of knowing the other boats across the bay probably had some very annoyed crews trying to sleep. 

“So I was thinking,” Crowley started, and he watched in his peripheral when Aziraphale stood straighter, as if preparing for this conversation. That boded well. “I could make it worth your while. I’ll do your next two—three blessings.” 

“I see. And you’d frolic about here?” 

“Er, I mean. I wasn’t gonna do anything terrible and evil, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’d owe you for taking the job,” he said. He knew it was going downhill, knew that there were places that were aimed for first. It felt important to try and get Aziraphale away, despite his reasoning being a little shaky — but there was no getting around it, the air of the city was  _ wrong, run, leave _ . If he wasn’t trying to get Aziraphale to get a move on, he too would have left the humans to their business with Hell or whoever was involved.

The angel hummed. “You aren’t here to do a job?”

“What, no,” Crowley said. “I’m just here because I like it. Bustling, good party life.”

“No you’re not,” Aziraphale said, crossing his arms like a parent catching their child in an obvious lie. “That may be a part of it, but I can see an ulterior motive in hanging about when there is one.”

“I am.”

“Try again,” Aziraphale answered, too sweet, and suddenly Crowley knew he was knee deep in dangerous waters. 

He made a face, wishing that he’d had more to drink before this. Or given Aziraphale more to drink. “Can we not?”

“Considering as this is pertaining to me and my position, yes, I’d like to know what’s really going on.”

A very tired demon wondered when the conversation turned back on him and neatly been plucked out of his own hands. Then, that was why he was so careful around Aziraphale, because if he was given half the chance, he’d run circles around anyone foolish enough to misjudge his sweet demeanor. 

“Like I said, there’s a few faces I’m not keen on seeing.” 

Aziraphale sighed. “What is your real reason for being here then, Crowley? I have a tendency to be slow, but I’m certainly not blind. And you’re a terrible actor. A worse liar.”

Crowley grumbled, wincing. “Alright, well.” 

Curse his inability to lie. 

“Truth, Crowley, or I won’t stay to listen to the rest.” 

“I…” Crowley trailed off, flickering his gaze between Aziraphale and the floor. The woodwork of the ship was actually very stunning, and all those neat swirls were distracting. He took a breath. Aziraphale looked ticked, prim with his hands clasped in front of himself. But he waited, patient as he always was when Crowley had difficulty speaking. And Hell if Crowley thought he could get away with lying to him now. Aziraphale wouldn’t even bother to hear anything else, just turn around and leave, and Crowley wouldn’t see him for however long Aziraphale wanted to be snippy at him.

Damnit.

“Fine.  _ Fine _ . There’s something wrong, and I just—well, I hear things,” Crowley started, glancing up guiltily. “Hell is, for lack of a better word, excited.”

Aziraphale grimaced, looking from Crowley to the city lights. The people gallivanting across the deck were still at it, as though the party had only just begun. “So they’re aiming for Alexandria.”

“It’s different this time. I can’t even say if they’re involved,” Crowley said, frowning. “It’s weird not to hear anything. No demons around, not swarms of hellhounds. It’s just…”

“Wrong,” Aziraphale agreed. He scratched the rim of his glass. “I felt it when I arrived as well.”

Crowley’s brows crinkled, looking over in surprise. “You knew?”

“Friendly reminder, not blind.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes, huffing a soft breath into the evening air. “I come here often enough. When I showed up and the aura felt off, it’s not as though I could have left.”

“Oh.”

“Yes,  _ oh. _ You didn’t want me around the city for purposes I have theories on, and distinct lectures prepared for all of them,” Aziraphale said flatly. “Should I be cross with you or flattered?”

“I didn’t think you could sense…”

“Dark and ominous energy not pertaining to Hell? Seems I can omit facts as well.”

Good, great, that was exactly how Crowley had wanted this chat to go. A ticked off Aziraphale was an effectively deaf Aziraphale. Crowley groaned, gesturing with his hand in frustration. “Look, yes, I omitted a few things, but they won’t tell me anything helpful.” 

“You don't even know what's wrong, and you're acting as though I don't know how to tell off a couple ne're do well  rapscallions?  Do you know my job as an angel means not shirking my _single_ job of protecting humans?” 

“Uh, yeah,” Crowley said. He knew there’d be an argument if Aziraphale caught wind of his intentions, but he didn’t think quite so deeply about the backlash. Sometimes, it was just as easy to forget Aziraphale's pride as it was to forget he’d owned a sword. He paused, distracted momentarily by the phrasing. "Rapscallions?"

Aziraphale shifted, ignoring the comment, and turned fully towards Crowley now. “So you knew precisely what sort of manipulation you were doing when you tried to get me to leave.” 

“Well, no,” stammered Crowley. “I don’t… I just wanted you, um.”

“Not here?”

“Not here for Hell to come up and look at the single angel on earth and say ‘_oh cool, free dinner, white and fluffy!_’ and release an armada of archdemons!” Crowley growled, waving his hand around in aborted motions in the air. “Forgive me for trying to avoid roast angel for dinner!”

“That isn’t your decision to make, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, stepping away from the railing he was leaning against so he was taller, more purpose in his bearing. Crowley felt his heart drop, because that was a soldier stance, and the very thing he’d so hoped to avoid. There was no coming back from this one, and Crowley found himself growing more desperate, that niggling feeling of a repeating _no no no_ settling into his gut. 

He’d always followed his instincts, and they’d never steered him wrong. All he knew for certain was that Aziraphale staying in the city was the worst possible outcome of this entire venture. 

“Aziraphale—” 

Aziraphale set his glass down. He looked back up to Crowley, and there was a firm steeliness in his eyes, the ice that thawed out the water beneath the blue frozen back over like they were accosted by a winter storm. “That is the end of that discussion.”

“Hey Crowley!” greeted a new voice, and the demon thought he might literally murder a child for the first time in his long existence. 

“Briseis, is  _ now the time?” _ Crowley hissed, turning on her with full intentions of scaring the wits from her small body, but was dismayed from it when Aziraphale stepped away.

“Angel wait,” Crowley called after him, but he was pinned into place by a stern glare that threatened actual physical violence should Crowley push it farther. Crowley watched as Aziraphale walked towards the short bridge over to the dock and crossed, never once looking back. 

“Did I interrupt something?” Briseis said, blinking with innocence.

_ "No,” _ Crowley growled, and stormed off to enjoy the rest of his party in his own quarters. 


	4. Politics is Literally Just Underhandedly Threatening Each Other

__________

__________

Hypatia stood in the front of the room — a huge, rounded hall — and she was pointing at an image before her. A large parchment was set out on a table, upon which she’d clearly spent a long time drawing out a very well rendered apple. She’d gone so far as to ask someone in the art division for a bit of their paint, produced the drawing, filled in the red, and showed it to the class with a brilliant smile.

“Now, I realize I’m not exactly the best artist, but I did my best,” she said, and then pulled a real apple from a small satchel. She set it on the table, atop the painting, and looked at the room filled with two dozen faces, some paying more attention than others. 

“What makes this apple more real than this one?” Hypatia asked, finger shifting from the one sitting on the table to the other one, an artistic rendition laying flat.

This was how she got you — pretended a subject was ever so easy, obvious, and then ripped the rug from under your feet. And somehow in the span of tripping and smacking your head against the ground, thoughts rearranged in a way that was never entirely a bad one. 

A man from the front muttered, “it’s edible.”

Hypatia looked at him, tipping her head forward in amused agreement. “If you look at the painting, you would say, yes, that is an apple. If you look at the one you can eat, you’ll say the same. One is an image of another, yes? Both are apples.” 

Awkward nods abounded. 

Aziraphale sat amongst the masses of students, some younger in appearance, some older in appearance, all of them blinks in the span of his own existence. It fascinated him that during their short time on earth, they were often — even likely — to teach him. He attended lectures, he read books, he learned, because that was what humans were best at. Curiosity. 

Beside him, Persephone sat with a pencil and a piece of paper. She doodled a cluster of grapes in the corner, and, smaller, a remarkably accurate depiction of male genitalia coming out of them. He wondered suddenly if he was giving the human race a bit too much credit. 

“Aren’t you here for a philosophy lesson?” Aziraphale muttered, nose crinkling.

“Yes,” she answered, adding curly hair to her grapes. 

Glancing up to the heavens for strength he would not be receiving from the heavens, he let out a long breath. He needed new human connections. 

Turning subtly, her lips thinned. 

“I did promise you some gossip,” Persephone said, and lowered her voice. “Though, I must tell you, there isn’t much to go on. They say Cyril is going mad. Assassinations are planned and mysteriously foiled, like he has ears everywhere.”

Hypatia’s voice echoed in the rounded hall, across each member of her captive audience. “So, what makes an apple an apple? Red? Edible? Maybe you’ll refer to the apple as being an apple because it is, inherently, an apple.”

Persephone paused, brows furrowed, and looked down at Hypatia.  
Hypatia tossed the fruit up and down in her hand a few times. 

Unbeknownst to an oblivious angel and young librarian, a demon sat beside a political official’s daughter in the shadows of the upper stands across the lecture hall. 

“Look, I’m already taking a chance on a little girl giving me anything useful, so spill it or you’ll be getting nothing,” Crowley said. His legs were crossed, feet kicked up onto the seat in front of him. The man sitting there didn’t seem to mind, or perhaps he didn’t notice. 

Briseis’ sharp green eyes narrowed at him. “Call me that again.”

“Can we just,” Crowley fluttered his hand slightly, “get on with it?”

Hypatia’s voice echoed in the rounded hall, across each listening ear. “So, what makes an apple an apple? Red? Edible? Maybe you’ll refer to the apple as being an apple because it is, inherently, an apple.” 

She tossed the fruit up and down in her hand a few times. “But are both not real enough to your senses? Both are red. Both can be eaten, if you have the right motivation — now, you have these two objects in view of every person in this room. I wonder, if they would appear the exact same way to different people.”

Briseis tapped her fingers against the wooden bench. She whispered under her breath, soft enough to where Crowley had to lean in farther to hear it. “I heard that Cyril is expecting a visitor. Whoever it is, they’re coming today for a meeting. I think they’re going to try and start a war. A real one, not these little skirmishes.”

“Dandy,” said Crowley.

“There are animals who hear things we can’t hear,” said Hypatia. “The lion can smell blood, the hawk can spot a mouse under the brush. These are all senses they possess, each a part of their world. Now, a man might enjoy this apple, but another may hate the flavor and prefer pears. Certainly, these two people are tasting something objectively the same, though they perceive it very differently. But who sees the world correctly?”

Unbeknownst to a demon and a frightful young woman with too many friends in high places, there was an angel and a girl who made very good sticky buns sitting across the room. 

Aziraphale sighed, leaning over to Persephone. “Cease your illustrations of the male penile form and pay attention.”

“To you or her?”

“I’m sure I don’t care which one, at this point,” Aziraphale said, making a face at the drawing.

“Could you describe this apple, in perfect detail, to another?” Hypatia asked, striding forward to to off what was, in fact, a regular apple. “If you described the color of this apple, you could do so with an analogy, but you could never share exactly what red is to you. Two people would need to share the same experience in order to understand each other clearly, would they not? Even then, would they not perceive the same object in slightly different ways?”

“Everyone has their own opinion Suppose it could mean there’s no real right or wrong,” offered a man from the front of the class.

Hypatia looked sly, shrugging unbidden. “Well, take it as you will, but I think every view is true, at least in a sense, because every truth is dependent on the perceiver. Now think about how this principle might pertain to everyday life.” 

Uncomfortable silence stilled the room. It had since become very clear that they were no longer talking about apples. Aziraphale and Persephone had since paused in whispering to one another, watching Hypatia with every inch of their attention. 

Crowley frowned severely, eyes cast down to the woman who spoke, louder, with every confidence that she had captured the room. 

“Not one of us are so different from another. We all have our own truths, so I suggest we share them with one another than to fight. Except, sometimes, that’s all there is left to do.” Hypatia lifted herself up and back so she could sit comfortably on the table. She let the room simmer for a few moments. No one spoke a word. She took a bite of the apple. 

Then, Aziraphale in all his perceptive senses, noticed the dark pair of glasses across the room.  
“Crowley?” Aziraphale mouthed, brows furrowing deeply.

At the same moment, it seemed that Crowley came to a similar realization. He squinted, as one does when wearing dark glasses indoors (and as one does anyway when you’re specifically a demon named Crowley), mouthing, “Aziraphale?”

He made a face, gesturing subtly to Hypatia. Aziraphale’s face crinkled in confusion. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” Crowley mouthed, and waved off a girl leaning close to his ear with a hushed, but clearly enunciating, _“stooop.”_ Aziraphale idly placed her as the girl from the evening before who had blessedly intervened in their argument and given him a chance to get off the boat. 

Aziraphale huffed. It wasn’t as if he could answer. Firstly, he was across the room, and speaking aloud to better converse would be counterintuitive to their mouthing. Secondly, he couldn’t exactly say, “I’m meeting here with my informant to try and prevent a war from taking place and if you could please not make that harder for me, that would be fantastic.” 

Instead, Aziraphale raised his brows high, looked pointedly at Hypatia, and mouthed, “lecture,” because to an eye that didn’t know why he was actually there, that would have been perfectly obvious before asking such a ridiculous question. 

It looked a lot like Crowley muttered out loud again, but his lips didn’t move enough for Aziraphale to see what it might have been. His face suggested he’d said something rude.

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale asked silently when Crowley met his gaze again, the intonation of _ you _ clear in the form of his lips.

Crowley shrugged and mouthed back, all cheek, “lecture.” 

_Good talk,_ thought Aziraphale. Next, they’d be telling one another about how nice the weather was lately, and yes, the copper pin is new.

Aziraphale would deal with demons intervening in heavenly business later.

Persephone snickered, having witnessed that lovely conversation. She leaned in towards Aziraphale. “I hear the guys around the forum up to something. Big plot, there’s been a lot of whispers about something going down in the next few days, and I’m afraid Cyril might be at the center of it.”

“When is he not?” Aziraphale asked blandly, grimacing at the crowds clustering together. Punches would be thrown, and the guards would break it up. They let it get excited enough to let off some steam, but it only added to the fire building up beneath, stoking embers with each arrest.

Persephone crinkled her nose, shaking her head. “Honest, he starts every shit show. But… this sounds different.”

“When?” Aziraphale asked. 

“My source says tomorrow night. Don’t know what, but I have a bad feeling. Political tensions are too high.”

Aziraphale studied her. Her muscles were taut, as though she was about to bolt. Well, the tension would explain Crowley’s presence, if it was his doing. There was a sudden influx of turmoil appearing alongside his, in conjunction with Crowley showing up, meant that there was more than likely a Hellish sort of intervention brewing. It didn’t explain why he wanted to switch jobs, or take care of Aziraphale’s business for him, not unless it was Crowley wanting to get Aziraphale out of the way for some fiendish scheme. 

Or, that’s what Aziraphale might have thought before he understood a bit more about Crowley. 

Aziraphale wouldn’t actively admit that he was terrible at reading situations or people’s true intentions, and sometimes had the wool pulled over his eyes (very literally with a wool bag one time in Greece), but he wasn’t stupid. He was well read — intelligent, bless it, and if he didn’t see Crowley show up every time there was going to be trouble for the angel, he’d be damned. The dear boy had a knack for trouble, and getting himself into it, sometimes with Aziraphale involved, but he was also explicitly good at getting them both out of it. 

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Thank you, my dear. I appreciate the, uh, ears to the ground, as they say.”

Persephone paused, hesitant, but then leaned in further. Her eyes caught his, and he was startled by the force behind them. “I think I’m leaving soon. Kinda wanna go out, see the world. You should too.”

Aziraphale’s lips pursed. “I’ll take that into consideration.” 

He handed her a few coins and a paper with book recommendations, which she picketed neatly in a pouch. He’d never asked where she got her information from, but she was never wrong. If Persephone was sure enough that a confrontation was going down in a few days, he believed her. If she was willing to part with the library and her home, Aziraphale had less time than he thought. 

Before them, Hypatia was sitting against the table. “So. Question of the day, is this apple red to everyone?” 

Aziraphale frowned, turning to watch from his seat. Persephone murmured, “not that people would try to agree on that.”

He was a bit inclined to agree, human nature being what it was. Soon enough, Hypatia’s class was set free. Aziraphale saw Crowley stand and step towards him, and he made a quick escape from the room. 

__________

Briseis waited for Persephone outside of the class, grabbing her arm and dragging her back behind a column.

Persephone yelped, though her mouth was covered before it made it past a split second of sound. She pushed off from the taller girl, pulling her long braid over her shoulder again. 

“Really?” she asked, brushing her robe clean, as though dirtied from being swung into a corner. 

“Yes, really,” Briseis said, her voice filled with glee. “Your guy and my guy know each other. Crowley just asked me to keep an eye on the white haired guy.”

“That’s Aziraphale. How funny, he asked me to keep an eye on Crowley as well,” Persephone answered. 

“Wow.”

“Yup, yeah, wow.”

They snickered together for the next two hours.

__________

Orestes really, really hated the Forum. It wasn’t even called that, not really — the true Forum, with a capital “F”, was in Rome. This was the forum, lowercase, as per a sprawling city who answers to a higher power; it might as well have been the Forum for all that Cyril believed he was in charge. One promotion to bishop of a city, and somehow the official prefect from Egypt was useless to have around. Orestes would be the first to admit that there was some selfish aspects to his position, and he wanted to keep it that way — difference being, he wasn’t a stone cold bastard with a prejudice against every self proclaimed “un-godly” thing that crossed his path. 

He walked into the white halls that rose up, towering above him, swallowing him as he entered. It made him feel small, but not in a way of awe, like you’d feel small standing at the edge of a canyon. Small, like an insect picked out of the proverbial buggy crowd to be stepped on by a comically large foot. In the same way that Rome was overbearing and over the top, so too were the people that represented it. Through the halls, there was a rounded, open room. It echoed too much, voices carried and bounced like flies until they swarmed the ear, where noise became buzzing echoes in a skeletal hall. 

It was crowded. This was the polite location to speak to other men of state. Drink and food was often laid out, with serving girls running to and fro, laughter conflicting against furious tones from opposite sides of the hall. The floor was stained rusted cherry in certain low traffic places, but was more than likely spilt wine.

Cyril was sitting on a stone bench, grousing orders at some newer member of their senate. His short greying hair and tanned skin offset the pristine white of his robes, and his long beard was twisted, forked in the way it was tied at the bottom. Cyril saw him coming and snapped at the poor boy he was speaking to, who scurried away with the certainty of a threat in his eyes. 

“Orestes, my friend,” said Cyril. His legs were crossed, and he held a rolled up scroll in his hand the same way one might a glass of wine.

“Cyril.” Orestes stopped in the center of the room. The placement was too similar to standing on trial for his comfort. Awkward, filled with too many expectations and none of them addressed — but standing anywhere else before Cyril shifted the power, gave him too much permission to pay less attention if Orestes was not in direct, inescapable view. 

And he waited; Orestes said nothing, let Cyril fill the silence, and the man was all too happy to do so. 

“This is a surprise,” Cyril muttered, fingers tapping along the paper. “I was just arranging a few meetings, but I’m always available for the keeper of the city.”

“Interesting that you mind my opinions in person,” said Orestes, brows raising. 

A man brushed past him, muttering an apology for bumping into him. Sighing, Orestes took another step closer, despite how uncomfortable it was inching closer to Cyril. He smelled of heavy perfumes mixed with the heady scent of overpriced dye used to create violet colours. 

“Hardly another way to mind you, is there?” Cyril asked, tilting his chin up. His long beard brushed against against his clothes. “I can only help you if you come to me.”

Orestes’ stomach twisted with something like repulsion. “I imagined we would consult one another on decisions of state, if not the church,” he said. 

A serving girl flitted past, cream tunic fluttering so that it rose above her knees. She darted past Cyril, who took the time to spare her a lingering stare. Orestes resisted the urge to snap his fingers to get his attention. 

When the patriarch looked back to Orestes, the smile creeping across Cyril’s face was silken.

He stood, unhurried. “Come, Orestes, we should speak somewhere more private. Join me for a drink or two,” Cyril said. 

Orestes trusted him as much as he’d trust Narcisses with a mirror. He did trust that Cyril wouldn’t dare touch him — at least, not right now. There was still too much Cyril needed from Orestes, and an assassination so easily attributed to the patron figure of the Roman Church wasn’t one of those things. This was why Orestes arrived when he did; the dozens of senators lounging about rounded seating in the open forum saw them, heard the beginnings of this conversation. If Orestes came up dead now, there were enough men invested in his political standing to insure Cyril’s death as well. 

There was a sort of politics to assassination as well — it was an art, and even then, there were expected standards with which to kill each other. 

Orestes went forward, gesturing for the patriarch to walk alongside him. Cyril stood smoothly, falling into step as they made their way down the marble halls. 

There was an atrium in which a few chaise chairs were spread out, with tables between to function as a somewhat quieter meeting place, but few came down this way. Open at the top, white arches rounding overhead, the room stifled echoes more than the enclosed forums with a dozen senators arguing policy. It was rumored that when it was built, the engineers planned it so that a whisper could be heard across the room when standing in the right spot. The more curious of the senate had yet to find such a “sweet spot,” if one did exist. Or perhaps, they didn’t want to share it if they did. 

Cyril sat, lifting his arm as he did so that his chiton unfurled behind him like a cape. It fluttered, rippling through the air; it was a deep, saturated violet. Almost unnatural, and nearly was — if not for the generous contributions of senate funding for his wardrobe choices and the decidedly unnatural amount of (look up what kind) of seashells ground up to create the dye. It smelled, reeking of decaying fish and rotting fruit as a byproduct of turning the fabric such a deep purple. Only one seemed to think the tradeoff was worth the off-putting stench, but then, Orestes realized, he might be using that to his advantage. 

Even so. It was excessive, impressive, and possibly the biggest waste of tax money Orestes had ever taken the pleasure of witnessing with his own two eyes.*

_ *Orestes tried to focus on the very pressing issue at hand. He really did. He was still distracted. It would, if one might make a similar comparison, be as though a man as if someone walked into a room with a robe fashioned out of 24k gold thread. It might have been less overt to walk into a room with a crown and a t-shirt with sewn in diamonds that spelled out _ Kneel, Plebeians _ in comic sans. _

“The servants will be around in a moment.” Cyril raised his brow, waiting. He still held the scroll in his hand, almost thoughtlessly, but Orestes felt unease rush through his breath. “Now, you have concerns?” Cyril asked, almost caring. 

“I do,” said Orestes. He took a deep breath. “There are nearly ninety small religious temples and churches throughout Alexandria. There were over one-hundred of them before you arrived.”

Cyril nodded, running a hand over his beard in contemplation. “The population will rebound.”

“The population isn’t my point.”

“Less division amongst our people, of course. The emperor has heard of the religious collisions so prevalent in this region, and I’ve done my best to quell them.”

A woman walked in with a wine jug. Cyril smiled wildly, and held his hand out for a cup. She spent a long moment pouring a stream of dark liquid into the glass for him, which he took and drank like it was water. Then, into one more. 

She picked up both in long, elegant hands, and offered it to Orestes. He waved her off, and she bowed her head politely, returning to kneel at Cyril’s side. Her ruddy hair was pulled up, curled and mussed as though she’d come inside from riding horseback. Orestes paused when he saw her. Her open expression was too relaxed, too unaffected by her surroundings. 

She kneeled below Cyril at the bench, who let out a fulfilled sigh that could only come from old men and their vices, and gestured for Orestes to continue. 

"Picking and choosing the best people to keep?" Orestes asked, because he was feeling particularly curt now.

"I'm doing the Lord's work. Surely you, a governor of the state, would understand what that entails, wouldn't you?" Cyril asked, his eyes growing slightly wider, as though in concern.

Orestes crossed his arms. "What you're doing is driving hundreds of citizens from the city."

The woman kneeling stood and walked to a standing table to pour a long stream of wine into a cup. 

"What I'm doing is crafting our city's glorious image to meet our empire's standards," said Cyril, as he took another long, luxurious sip of wine.

“Tax-paying citizens,” Orestes specified. He shifted his shoulders back, straightening his posture. He made a point to flick his eyes to Cyril’s robes. Cyril shifted backwards into the seat, using his elbow to prop himself upright. 

Orestes’ frown deepened. “We’re hard pressed as it is on budget. Do your standards afford Alexandria any measure of economic safety?”

The woman at his side leaned back, and Orestes’ gaze was drawn to her again. She looked bright eyed, and almost kind. But not afraid. 

Orestes let his fall eyes away from her. She was not the patriarch he was speaking to. "You're terrifying them all, your elite club included. They're going to start ripping one another to shreds. But you know that already," he said, frowning.

“I know that there are heathens infecting our streets.” 

“Have you been outside lately? We had peace. Three years ago,” Orestes said. Their city had been thriving, building itself into something great as it once was when the original Library stood. Somehow, it began to dissolve, and in the short time since Cyril arrived, curiosity merged into distrust. 

Orestes was never one for intervening in fights that ended in political assassinations, but — _ but. _

Cyril smirked then; he was delusional, encompassed into his own self-anointed holiness, and he was the end all be all. A god, Orestes thought, and grimaced. No man who ever thought he was a god ended up with anything less than twenty-three stabs in his back. Cyril, if Orestes was going by the murmurs of the other forum members, was more inclined to around three hundred impalings. If only they could just, perhaps, hurry it up a little. 

"This is a necessary action, Orestes, whether you like it or not. Your jurisdiction doesn't have the same grounds in the church as it does in the forum. I make these difficult decisions on behalf of the emperor, and none of them are ever easy, despite what you seem to believe. 

"I'm not so certain you've spoken to Rome about any of this," Orestes said. “Much less the decisions you’re making on behalf of it.”

Cyril’s thin eyes narrowed. With his thin face and long nose, Orestes was reminded a bit of a manged wolf. "Are you suggesting I'm outside of my purview? I can show you the correspondences, if it would help ease your concerns." 

"If you would," said Orestes, careful, more certain now that none exist. "But I must ask, why do you think this will go over easily? Riots will start taking over our streets, civil unrest will be more prevalent than it already is.”

“This is, governor, the reasoning of my actions,” he said, and sighed. “I wish there were another way for Christian purity.”

“The most effective being to expel half the city,” Orestes scoffed, disbelieving. 

“The Lord’s will is often confusing to mortals, but we have the written Word to follow, and it is ever in our nature to follow Him. But it is not in ours to question. You wouldn’t want to betray our own ideals, would you?"

“Stop excommunicating people,” Orestes said, since subtle wasn’t working.

Cyril set the scroll in his lap. He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “What more can I do? The lovers of evil in this world will be sent to hell regardless of what I do. If I can redeem some — any of them, that would be a victory. But allowing them to spread their evil through the lovers of virtue in this city is to allow the devil into our homes.” 

“That’s an easy way for you to talk when you don’t have to hear families asking me where to go from a city they’ve lived all their lives. Who are you to know what God wants from us? I doubt you send him correspondence in the same way you do Theodosius.”

“You believe I use my power for my own gain.” Cyril had the gaul to sound hurt.   
“There is more to written Word in the keeping of faith in a city.” 

Cyril paused. He hummed, a finger stroking the paper. “Are you suggesting yourself a pagan?” 

There was interest in his voice. That the question was posed at all was dangerous. There was leniency to the people – lenient meaning not outright killing – but it was another matter entirely should a state official be suspected of anything that was not the official religion of the land. 

Orestes lowered his voice, shoving aside the claim, and hissed. “Your version of the gospel is yours alone.”

Whether Cyril thought him a member of the church or not, it ceased to matter the moment he’d asked the question. In his mind, he branded Orestes a traitor, and now, he would claim Orestes unfit for leadership. He didn’t, however, like the way the conversation seemed to have ended there. 

Cyril nodded, slowly, brows furrowed in what might be thought. “Perhaps you are right. I will take your words into consideration. And, God willing, you would accept a small manner of scripture,” Cyril said, and then he held out the rolled up scroll in his hands across the table towards him. “This is the Word you’ve denied. Accept this, and I will do as you ask, but I wish for you to read the Lord’s gospel.”

Orestes read the gesture for what it was; accept what I say as law, give me control. 

He took a deep breath. Fuck it, he was already this deep in.

“My duty is to keep the city afloat and not run it into the ground, if you need reminding,” said Orestes, who barely glanced at the offered scroll. “I answer to the emperor, and I answer to the people.”

Cyril shrugged, setting it back at his side. He drew the final sip from his glass, tipping it upside-down to catch the last crimson drop. A calloused hand brushed any remnants from his cracked lips. He handed the cup down into a pale, slim hand. The woman reached for the wine jug and filled another glass for Cyril, who took it greedily back up from her hands. 

Orestes had never in his life been more certain of an assassination plot budding in someone’s head.

Cyril smiled again. “Thank you for bringing your concerns to my attention, my friend. As I said, I will take your words into consideration. And for the moment, will tolerate your pagans in the city.”

Orestes’ jaw was stiff, trying not to clench his teeth together. “Mine?”

“Of course. I value your opinion higher than I do any man in Alexandria.”

“That’s a thought,” Orestes muttered, because even professionals in the art of speech could grow tired of bullshit. 

The soft echo of scuffled feet bounced down the hall. Two senators laughed, oblivious to the situation as they rounded the corner. They did, to their credit, not remain oblivious for long. Curious eyes fell on the governor and patriarch sitting together — both known for their dislike of the other — softened their voices into nill, and they seemed to have sped their pace, feet scuffling a little faster through the room and down the hall. 

Orestes cleared his throat. “I want it written that you will not force anyone else from this city until I see a written letter from the emperor himself.”

“Of course, my dear friend,” Cyril was saying, but Orestes was not looking at him anymore. 

The woman was silent beside Cyril until she said, “Ugh, well that’s no fun.”

Frowning, Orestes watched her now, remembering that she was there. And now, he realized she hadn’t merely sat through the conversation — she was thriving off the energy, smirking. 

Every man had his own motives, three different goals in mind with three outcomes, and Orestes knew the look of a mind playing a dozen games at once when he saw one. For some reason, despite being lower to the ground, he understood all at once that there was power there.

He had the sudden, irrational thought that beside Cyril, she looked like a vengeful phoenix. Her soft lips looked gentle, inviting, her ruby hair glimmering like feathers framing dark, ageless eyes. She was calm in the presence of dangerous men with no need for preservation instincts; a phoenix without a worry about life, assured to be born again and again from the ashes.

Orestes blinked a few times, and the thought was gone. He was struck suddenly with the bewildering, unnerving thought that he had not once questioned her presence during this meeting, hadn’t considered anything past concubine. 

He turned to face her then, slowly, focusing now. The questions he needed to ask were difficult to think of, like he couldn’t catch the words when they ran through his head long enough to consider their meaning. It felt something like panic, and another thing like knowing not to look at the sun too long lest it burn your eyes from your skull. Orestes’ lungs stuttered like they’d been punctured with a dagger. 

She rose to stand, and beside her, Cyril seemed small. The woman’s hair glinted in the sunlight through the roof as though forged from fire.

Outside the window, a small garter snake hissed something that sounded like, _ "fuuuuck.” _

“Who are you?” Orestes asked. 

The woman smiled, genuine and sweet. 

“My friends call me Mars.” 


	5. Convincing People Not To Do Stuff Doesn't Work If You're Bad at Convincing

The trouble with human-made monsters was that angels and demons didn’t have direct control over them. Angels, once, tried to make allies with Pestilence. They saw it as a business opportunity when they realized how effective the horsemen were at their job. Clean cut, quick, and involved no effort on their own part. Wipe out the many, the widespread vengefulness of a cold, calculating entity. 

And yet, the angels who were sent to offer a professional, mutually beneficial contract between Heaven and one of the four horseman ended disastrously. Four angels were not injured, not discorporated, but eliminated from all planes of existence. 

Hell thought they’d do one better. A couple of Legion were sent, chatted up Famine, and personally returned two demons onto Hell’s doorstep that were nothing left but skin and bone. They too, were wiped from the universe. 

War didn’t mind Hell all that much. They never had any deal going, and she’d made certain they knew never to ask. She did, however, find that some of their end goals were in agreement. This was a common end, to cause as much strife, pain, fear, anger, and desolation as much as she was able to touch within her clawed fingers. 

She thought angels were beautiful, wearing all that white. 

Demons wore dark colors. Always harder to see her good works. 

Humans had many names for her. She was flattered when they gave her a celestial body, a red mark in the night sky, burning brightest beside a blood moon. 

_ Mars _ felt so wonderfully right to knock down the last stronghold of the Roman Empire. 

__________

Hypatia was expecting Aziraphale anytime now, though this time they were meeting at the Serapeum itself. She flipped through a text on astronomy as she sat on a bench outside her classroom. 

She heard him enter from a distance. Some of her students loitered about, and some of the daring stopped to ask her a question before wandering off to another section. His presence was a welcome one. He was a gentle, old sort of soul to be around, and could talk for hours about a wide range of topics. And there was a decent bonus: great deal of men had chased after Hypatia over the years, but it comforted her to know she never had to be concerned with Aziraphale suddenly growing interested in her bosom. 

“Hello Hypatia,” he said, and sat down beside her where she patted the marble bench. Without further thought, he crossed his legs and opened a book of assorted poems he kept in his bag, flipping easily through the pages to his bookmark,* tucked into dog-eared pages.

_ *Aziraphale's bookmark was actually a torn piece of paper, upon which there lived an odd poem about ducks. If asked, he would stutter and inform you that he was only using it as a placeholder and was the nearest usable object in reach at the time. It wasn’t his handwriting (far too scrawley), nor was it his verbose lyricism. It was a more fluent, more blunt way with words, a mixture of feigned cynicism that cloaked a hopeless optimism, of which Aziraphale himself didn’t possess. _

“Aziraphale,” she greeted, and the two of them went into a thrilling dissection of the Egyptian gods, and compared the strange conglomeration of architecture around the city that combined Greek, Roman, and Egyptian aspects into another.* After some time, the chatter dwindled into each of them reading their own choice literature, and the sun began to set through the open windows. People shuffling around the open halls eventually dwindled away so that any soft noise echoed around the hall, soothing, like drips in a cave. 

_ *Under the city, there was a necropolis that Crowley once brought Aziraphale to see — he didn’t tell the angel it was a tomb, exactly, rather a “glorious sightseeing locale.” When Aziraphale saw the engravings of people’s names into stone slabs, he sputtered for a while until Crowley dragged him down the steps, through a wide room with nothing but a banquet table, and down a spiral staircase to a small chapel. A towering statue of Anubis stared back. The statue was flawless; but, in true Grecian form, had adjusted the statue to their own tastes — an addition of a snake tail for the god, Agathos. In true Roman form, Anubis was dressed in full Legionary armor. The fuzzy red mohawk atop Anubis’ helmet only enhanced its imposing presence. Aziraphale laughed hard enough that he bought Crowley three rounds of the city’s best mulsam. _

Some time passed. Hypatia closed her text and stared forward. Aziraphale never minded when she went quiet, as if entering another world, transporting herself far, far away. This was where she did most of her thinking, and where her sharp wit was honed, moving three steps ahead of the crowd, using the momentum to drop-kick the nearest politician. 

The sun turned the white of the library into a soft, glowing orange. 

“Do you know, in the evenings it sort of looks like embers,” she said, her eyes trailing off to the floor. Her feet stretched out, sandals flat on the ground. Hypatia shifted and, grinning, sunk her body down from the bench and onto the floor. Her crimson robes crumpled around her in a pool of fabric, head laid back lax against the seat. In the waning light, her dress looked rusted, fuzzy at the edges, as if her body wasn’t entirely corporeal. 

“My dear?” Aziraphale asked. She turned her head, and her eyes caught the yellow light in such a way that they reminded him a little of someone else’s. 

“Just a thought,” said Hypatia. Coming to a stand, she tilted her head forward in a question. “I’d like to ask you something, Aziraphale.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“It’s on everyone’s, actually. My friend, Orestes — you’ve met him, he spilled drink on your lap the last time you visited — is doing something akin to trying to stop a very large boulder rolling down a mountain with a dagger.”  


Aziraphale furrowed his brow, thumb brushing along the spine of the poetry book he’d brought along. “Ah, him. I had to buy new robes.” 

He could have miracled them clean, but they’d still be soiled. To him, anyway. 

Hypatia nodded, though there was the hint of a smirk there now. “That man, yes. I trust your opinion, and I have had the strongest sensation that I should ask you.”

“Well, from what I’ve heard, Orestes is handling himself, and many believe he’ll be able to get through to Cyril.” Aziraphale did rather hope so himself. He’d hoped for a lot of things since coming to Alexandria, but there seemed to be less of a chance the more he saw. 

She tisked, clicking her tongue while her nose wrinkled. “Silly, fighting over thoughts. Have they never heard of debate halls? More talking, less pointy things in fleshy things.” 

Conversations like these made Aziraphale uncomfortable. He was an immortal being — or very nearly, if that talk upstairs of Armageddon had any merit to it — and this was all small potatoes in the grand scheme of time. Or, since time was an imagined construct,* it was small on the scale of the Great Plan. 

_ *Time is bollocks. This is why Crowley can manage time so well. For one, it doesn’t exist; he can manage anything well if it's not there to manage. For another, he has a better imagination than any being, above or below. He’s also incredibly adept at bullshitting. _

Or, that was what an angel might have thought, if they were not this angel in particular. What this angel thought was that, time — imagined or not — did not go faster for him than for anyone else. He went through life at the same pace as humans did, felt connections with people right here, now. There was a girl before him who was gentle, intelligent, and fearing for her home. Who, for whatever reason, decided she was trusting Aziraphale with those fears. 

“I don’t care for partaking in shallow conversation. You know that,” said Hypatia. 

It broke through to Aziraphale enough for him to sigh. 

“Oh, alright,” he muttered. “I think what’s to happen is… well, it’s part of a Greater Plan. I know you don’t believe in a higher entity in the same way as I, but you read a lot of Plato. You know, causality, and such.”

“Do you really believe that?” she asked, tilting her her to the side, a loosened curl of hair falling to her shoulder. 

“Of course,” Aziraphale said, smoothing a wrinkle from his tunic. “There’s a bigger purpose in everything.”

“The Fates, then?” she huffed. “What a choice then, if it’s all planned out.”

Aziraphale gave her a look much like she’d just shoved a lemon with the most bitter peel into his mouth. “Humans have every bit of choice.”

“Not the way you’ve just suggested.” 

“It’s, um,” said Aziraphale.

“Ineffable?” She said, except it wasn’t her voice, and the voice was coming from across the room. Hypatia blinked, twisting her head to look behind her. 

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale muttered, and made a noise with his tongue that might have been disapproval. Or, if a wordless tongue click could be translated into words, would have been _ “well this might as well happen.” _

“You have got to get over that word. Insufferable is a nice one, if you’re looking for a new word to abuse.” 

Crowley stood in one of the long, tall windows. In front of the setting sun, he was shadowed by the orange light, body silhouetted as a shadow. The sun, when eclipsed by the earth, has a similar effect. Inadvisable to look at directly, but you do it anyway, because it’s a scene. And Crowley lived for his dramatic entrances.*

_ *Aziraphale being on the receiving end of most of them. _

“So sorry to crash your party, but I believe I need to speak with someone in this room whose name rhymes with _ a beer and ale _, and I have no intentions of letting said person get out of it. Hello Hypatia, saw your apple bit in class, very clever, great stuff.” Crowley raised his eyebrows pointedly at Aziraphale, who closed his open book with an equally pointed slap. 

Aziraphale’s voice went flat and clipped. “There’s no dire need.” 

If he was lucky, Crowley would pick up on the fact that he was still very angry with him, and had no intention of conforming to his whims. “Actually, there is,” Crowley said. Aziraphale was suddenly, annoyingly, very certain Crowley didn’t plan on leaving here until he acquiesced to his fit of… whatever this was. “We need to talk.”

There was an odd way about how Crowley moved, as if he was aborting the instinct to glance back over his shoulder. Aziraphale’s gut told him something had happened; that was enough to push aside his frustrations and give in to Crowley’s request.

The angel opened his mouth to say something, but decided it wasn’t worth it, and sighed instead. 

“Apologies,” Aziraphale answered through grit teeth. “You’re quite right. Perhaps we should have a chat, if you’re so insistent on it,” said Aziraphale. He shoved the borrowed copy of The Iliad into the bag at his side. 

“Who’s this?” Hypatia asked. Who indeed, Aziraphale was now glaring at, glaringly. 

“A street ruffian,” Aziraphale said at the same time Crowley answered, “a handsome playwright,” which did its intended duty in derailing both philosopher and angel for a moment. 

“You’ve written plays?” Hypatia asked. Aziraphale could have moaned in despair when the woman’s keen eyes narrowed in on Crowley with interest. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale warned. 

“Only a few, couple years back. Hey angel, mind if we get going? We’ve got a reservation,” he said, flitting a hand in a _ hurry along _motion as though he hadn’t been uninvited at all. Favorite tactic of a demon: confuse everyone, make them forget what they were previously talking about, and ding ding, you win the conversation. 

What made Aziraphale sit up a little straighter though, was the tone between his words — he had the brilliant tendency to act a little high strung at the best of times, but Aziraphale knew Crowley well enough to pick up on the jitters that were not caused by caffeine and/or the attention span of a flighty dove. He was paying closer attention now, but then, so was Hypatia. 

“Oh, alright,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley leaned up against the wall like his snake vertebrae still somehow worked in a human body. “Hey, miss philosopher?”

“Yes?” Hypatia tilted her head towards him.

“A bit about the apples. Just thought I’d mention it, but you’ve got a bit of a paradox on your hands. You can’t have anything near the word good or evil if everyone’s right. But you know that, so why say otherwise?”

Hypatia looked about as surprised at Aziraphale felt. She recovered first. “I believe there’s right and wrong, but who am I to say whether I’m right about that or not?”

“What,” said Aziraphale.

“Who’d say it’s wrong to have an apple?” Crowley asked.

“Is that a real question?” She looked to be hiding a smile. 

“Thank you for your company, Hypatia, lovely as always,” Aziraphale stood up. “Crowley can you _ please _.”

“What?” Crowley jumped down from the window ledge. 

Hypatia chuckled. “I think I like him.”

“Kinda like me too.” The demon shifted his robes to better sit on his shoulder. 

Hypatia’s eyes twinkled. She opened her mouth to answer.

“Will you be around tomorrow, Hypatia? I’m sorry to leave so suddenly,” Aziraphale said, effectively cutting off whatever she might have said to Crowley. 

There were few things he was certain of in his life: one of those things was now that Crowley and Hypatia must never talk actively to one another, lest they both become menaces to the Alexandrian populace. He shot Crowley a dirty look for good measure.

She stood, glancing at Aziraphale with barely concealed amusement. “Of course. Come see me whenever you have some free time, I hardly ever leave the place,” Hypatia said. “Oh, and if you’re available, Crowley, you’re welcome to join us.

“Perhaps if he is otherwise unoccupied,” said Aziraphale, who rather hoped that Crowley could hear the implied, _ “should Crowley not find himself attempting to breathe underwater.” _

By the way Crowley was smirking, it seemed that he had.

Ignoring the demon for now, Aziraphale nodded to Hypatia. “Till tomorrow, my dear.”

“Thanks for being a good sport and all, see you tomorrow if I’m not murdered in my sleep by our mutual friend,” Crowley said brightly. Aziraphale rolled his eyes. The night was young, there was still a chance of that happening, depending on where this so-called imperative meeting went. 

They left, and Hypatia wandered down the aisle in search of some light reading on the dichotomy of good and evil where she slowed her pace, and stopped. 

“Angel?” she mouthed to herself, snickering as she continued on down the shelves. 

__________

Crowley saw The Library burn too.

He’d felt the twist of horror when he saw Aziraphale, sitting atop the Lighthouse of Pharos, hands clasped together in his lap tight enough to turn white. His heart clenched tight. He’d hoped Aziraphale wasn’t near the city. 

“Hey.” Crowley had flown up to stand behind him. Aziraphale hadn’t answered; he stared forward, desolate. The fire was quieter from this distance. The people were not. 

Aziraphale stared forward, as if he hadn’t heard him.  
“Angel?” Crowley asked, gentler. He hesitated, unsure if he was intruding in a clearly private moment. 

“I gave them fire,” said Aziraphale, whispered between the screams and the echoing crack of buildings.

The odd tone wiped any ideas of leaving Aziraphale alone from his mind. Crowley sat down next to Aziraphale, as close as he dared. The smell alone was enough to choke on, suffocating, his throat dry and brittle. 

He looked over, searching. The angel’s eyes were closed, and a thrumming orange light flickered over his face. There were too many things he wanted to say, and not one word of them could rival the ones that were lost. 

“Weapons too,” Aziraphale said. Crowley ached at the desolation in his voice.

“They’d have found those things anyway,” Crowley murmured, turning his head, hoping the angel would look back. 

“I know,” Aziraphale said. When he did meet Crowley’s eyes, they were filled with tears that waited to overflow onto his cheeks, but were resolute in trying not to. 

The smoke was enough to blot out the stars. 

Ash fell like a gentle rain, embers floating across their view until they extinguished themselves in the sky. The air was too still, and smoke was the only real trace of movement from their vantage point. 

Dark flakes of soot dotted Aziraphale’s white clothing like bastardized snow. It was wrong. Crowley couldn’t imagine him wearing anything but white. 

A black wing stretched out over a silent, weeping angel. They sat together atop the lighthouse until the fire burned itself out and the city was dark. 

This was what Crowley pictured, when he imagined what something worse than hell might be like. He imagined books burning. 

__________

“You couldn’t have waited just a touch longer?” Aziraphale asked, tisking lightly. “You could not have been more aware that we were in the middle of something. You know, stopping the impending war in the city?”

“No,” answered Crowley. He came prepared not to be deterred. “Besides, I’m trying to apologize.”

Aziraphale sighed pointedly, but there was a distinct lack of response on Crowley’s behalf to it, who wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. Crowley gestured towards the brilliant white steps of the temple leading down to a cobblestone path towards the bay. 

"Right,” Aziraphale muttered. His anger settled back into his bones as he watched Crowley grow more restless by the second. “Shall we get on with it then?” 

“Er, yes,” said Crowley, who kicked a rock like it had done him wrong. Crowley glared at it because he was half convinced it had. At least twenty percent of his problems could now be blamed upon that rock. 

They walked side by side outside, stepping down onto the busy streets. Aziraphale glanced over to him, and Crowley knew he was picking up on how agitated he was getting as they went, nerves bundling up in his system until he was a mess of awkward limbs and frantic, odd movements. He was still intent on playing this cool. 

"Where are you taking us for reservations, exactly?" Aziraphale asked. 

"Ah, that would ruin the surprise," Crowley said, grinning back too easily. "Besides, we haven't gotten together for a real dinner since you came to the city. I thought we might as well enjoy the evening as it comes."

"There was a party,” Aziraphale pointed out flatly, though he could have sounded more miffed about it if he really wanted to. “And since when do you go with the flow?"

"I think that's actually my MO, being all serpent-y."

"Sure," Aziraphale said, though Crowley could tell he was unsure about where this was all going. He was a good sport about it, generally, when Crowley went and made plans. He liked surprises; it was when Crowley started acting odd, overly friendly when they might have been cold to one another for longer after an argument that took Aziraphale off guard. 

“Don’t you worry, the venue was practically made for you. Your favorite foods too.”

“Yes, yes, I’m listening,” Aziraphale said. Crowley knew the best way to get right back into Aziraphale’s good graces, and he prepared every dish the angel was partial to. Aziraphale could pick and choose as he wished, but Crowley had his insightful plan to earn favor with peace offerings.

And, when they did arrive, Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "Really."

"Yes. Come onnn," Crowley said, eyebrows wriggling. "You have to admit it's fun."

"You said reservations."

"I believe I said — well, that's what I said. But I'm a demon, I say things."

Aziraphale looked quite put out. "I really thought we'd be getting to eat somewhere."

As Crowley strolled up the dock, he gestured for the angel to cross the little plank walk over the threshold of _ To The Fairest, _ and clicked his tongue.

"Come on, angel, I wouldn't tease you of food. I'm a demon, not... well. Not a worse demon," he said.

Somewhat mollified, Aziraphale walked over and stepped onto the familiar deck that was Crowley's current pride and joy. Though Crowley shifted between having current obsessions over the years (unhealthy, if Aziraphale had anything to say about it, but also fully enabled Crowley into hoarding these very human, admittedly fascinating bits of human ingenuity), Crowley was always the one on top of the latest and greatest innovations of humans. 

"Alright then," Aziraphale said. The table Crowley set out was dressed in rich cloths and set with fine dishes, and ever so tempting for angels who really, really liked cushy chairs and candles and fine silverware. Somewhat mollified became inordinately pleased, and he sat down.

Crowley sat across him, falling into the chair like walking was too heavy a task. He stretched out, arm over the back of his chair, legs long and languid under the table at an angle so they peered out from the other side. “Ahem. ‘Kay, so. Sorry about all that, um, last night. Yeah.”

“Hm,” said Aziraphale. He reached for the first plate of food, preoccupied for a moment by the peace offering, presented with little cakes and sweets of all kinds. Crowley outdid himself with this. Aziraphale lifted his gaze again, as he took a bite of something figgy and spongy. “And you’re truly apologizing for all of that secretive funny business? Your concern is unwarranted, and I think, perhaps, a bit dramatic. I do hope you’re aware I can take care of myself.”

Sighing, Crowley lost traction as he looked back at Aziraphale, and felt more tired than anything. “I know you can, angel.” 

“Not exactly an apology. Not exactly informative of the situation.” Aziraphale frowned. “Really, Crowley, you’re acting a bit odd. Are you alright?” 

The demon swallowed hard, Adam’s apple rolling down and back up. He felt like a deer in a hunter’s sight who desired very much not to be here, caught between ducking underneath the table and sprinting as far as his legs could take him. His eyes kept darting back up to Aziraphale, then back away again. “Erm.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, quieter, kinder. “Please.”

“Can’t we just do a switch? Would it be that hard to just—” Crowley stopped, but he could feel his heart pounding, fingers curling into the table. That bad feeling has ratcheted up to a twenty on a scale of ten; and knowing that War was involved, that was just the icing atop the proverbial cake. 

“You’re being ridiculous. We’re not even certain this civil war will happen. I have good reason to believe that everything will turn out fine,” said Aziraphale, although Crowley winced hard, and it earned him a suspicious look. “I don’t see why they can’t talk things out. Once they push Cyril out of office, there’s nothing else that—“

“War,” Crowley muttered. Aziraphale stopped, suddenly very still in his seat. Crowley thought, fuck it, cards on the table, there’s everything. He breathed a long, hissed breath through his teeth. “War is here, and she’s planning on having the time of her life.”

“I see.” 

“Yeah.”

“You know this?”

“Yup.”

Muttering to himself, Aziraphale made a disgusted face. “Well she was a bloody joy in Greece wasn’t she?”

“So you know, it’s a terrible idea, we should leave.” Crowley offered the obvious way out, arms opening wide. “Got a boat.”

“And so you’re perfectly content to let the city fall?”

It took a lot to answer with care, rather than shouting common sense like Crowley wanted to. “Content isn’t the word,” he said, low under his breath. 

“What would you call it?”

“Making a strategic retreat when you know you can’t win,” Crowley said, this time firmer, grounded. “Hell lost demons to her. A lot of them. She doesn’t discriminate, and that’s why they like her so much. But that’s also why they’re not touching this with a legion-long pole, all happy to watch it happen from front row seats all the way back in Hell.”

War was different. War was not Hell’s, not Heaven’s, not even somewhere in-between, or from some other plane. Entirely human — but also very much something _ else _. Neither side wanted to deal with the human-made creatures of mortals, which they had at some point realized over the millennia possessed the power to harm angels and demons alike. 

Same with Famine, and Pestilence. Both were created entities, the worst of mankind coalesced into beings that inevitably brought more of what they were formed from in a vicious cycle humans never knew existed. 

And, as it turned out, possessed enough power to destroy angels and demons. They knew, because both sides had tried to catch a new ally or two when the opportunity arose. There was a reason they weren’t associated with either side. Neither succeeded. Both gained a new respect for human-created monsters. 

“I’m aware of the implications,” said Aziraphale. “But I want to see the Serapeum survive. I don't need to watch any further libraries burning, thank you. Whether or not you do or do not is none of my business." Aziraphale brushed his coat with pale hands, nails perfectly trimmed even in the early centuries of AD. He made an aborted gesture with his hand, like he wasn’t sure what to do with it.”

"Wha — none of your business? Are you actually that dense? Do I have to spell it out for you?" He made grand gestures with his hands, the way he did when he couldn't get someone* to understand what he actually meant.

_ *Crowley had a short list of people who's opinion he cared enough about to bother getting frustrated over. It consisted of exactly one (1) person. It was a short list. _

"I know what you're doing," said Aziraphale, who was picking at the plums with severe scrutiny, "and I have decided I do not care. Trying to get me out of the city won't do you a lick of good, because I'm staying.”

Crowley almost snapped back that he didn't think the angel knew what Crowley was doing at all. Or maybe he did, and it was a bigger issue that Aziraphale just didn't care. "Aziraphale, you can't stay."

Aziraphale paused, narrowing his eyes dangerously. "I can, and I will. You're not my keeper, but you seem to find a great deal of sport interfering with my affairs whilst bafflingly unrelated to Hell's ambitions. And somehow, haven’t been found guilty of associating yourself with an angel. Yet. Do you truly think I could just leave? Now?"

Crowley’s frustrated hands clenched in the air. "Yes, you could! That's what I'm trying to get you to do!"

"I can't and you know it."

"Look,” Crowley said desperately, "I'll come with you to Rome, we'll do that thing and get oysters again, and Alexandria will rebuild itself in the meantime."

Aziraphale looked like he'd been slapped. He took a step back, brows furrowed together into a tight mess. "You don't care at all what happens here?"

Crowley did. He really, really did, but he didn't want Aziraphale to be within a hundred miles of it happening. 

Not when War was involved, and not when Crowley himself was going to be expected to do actual damage. As far as the big boys downstairs, they could care less about what he was doing up on earth most of the time. But he was here, and the moment they knew it, he'd be expected to act like a good <strike>bad</strike> demon. Book burning was always fairly high up on their list — that, and enticing people into shouting quotes from the Bible at one another as they mounted armies to crush anyone who didn't shout Bible quotes back at them in an agreeing manner. One of their favorite past times, honestly.

The moment he agreed with Aziraphale was the moment his charade was over. The second he said, "I care," was the exact second Aziraphale would say something to the effect of, "Then what are we doing fighting? We could be readying ourselves, planning. We could _ do something _about all this. I don't like fighting or intervening in human affairs. But this is — this is Alexandria. This is knowledge, and every manner of book and—" 

That was where Crowley's imagination cut off, where he thought the angel might start tearing up, but he also knew that was exactly how Aziraphale would sound, that was exactly what Azirapahle would say, and that was exactly why he couldn't allow it to happen.

Crowley grimaced, pinching his lips together. "No, I don't."

He regretted it almost immediately. The angel looked like he'd been stabbed, and Crowley thought maybe he might as well have. Aziraphale's lip trembled. "Then consider this little agreement you've thought up over with. It’ll never happen, not with you."

"Aziraphale."

The angel turned away and walked stiffly down the boardwalk.

"Aziraphale," Crowley tried again. He couldn't let him walk away now. If Aziraphale showed himself to the wrong people, to _ War, _there'd be more than hell having fun. There'd be a target.

"I thought—" Aziraphale's shoulders twitched. Crowley was planted to the spot. "Well. I suppose you were just doing your job."

"Doing my..." Crowley stopped, and he took a moment to process the implication. Then he was caught, mouth open. "You can't believe that. You cannot actually, possibly believe that."

There was a jerky shrug, and Aziraphale made a noise that didn't sound very voluntary. "I'm going to try and stop them, with or without you. Just because the city falling back then hadn't impacted you, it rather impacted a great many other people."

"It didn't _ impact _ me? Because standing here, telling you to _ listen to me, _ that doesn't tell you anything, not a single thing? The city is one thing, angel, but you—" Crowley said, and stopped all at once. Too close, too sincere. He backed up, reworded, and did not follow that line of thought any further. "I have skin I'd like to keep. They'd forgive you for ducking out for once — Hell, I didn't even think they'd approve of you working alone.”

Aziraphale turned around slowly. His face was wretched.

Crowley stared. Realization dawned like a spark. "They don't. They have no idea you're going to help. They told you _ not _ to."

"I thought humans mattered to you," Aziraphale said. He stood up, back straighter. He didn't look like a man who regretted any of it — it was the first time in a long, long time that Crowley saw Aziraphale so certain. He opened his mouth to speak. Aziraphale beat him to it.

"Did you sit up there with me back when the library burned because you felt pity? It's sad to see the angel cry?"

Crowley stopped, a pit opening in his stomach.

"What," Crowley started slowly, "the fuck would I do that for?"

Aziraphale, for all the world, suddenly looked this shy of manic. He was breathing heavier, like someone had just threatened to strike him over the head with a molten iron. Defensive, backed into a corner. Crowley was the only living being who might not brand him a traitor for disobeying, and it didn’t escape the demon that Aziraphale wouldn’t have spoken to another soul in that tone.

But that was a _ might, _ in Aziraphale’s mind. "Lure the angel in, make him think you're friends, make sure he _ really _thinks you've got his back, let him—"

Crowley took three long strides across the dock and grabbed ahold of Aziraphale's robes. His hands burned, lips curled up as he growled. "After everything — nevermind Mesopotamia, or Greece, or five thousand years of being friends, you're going to say you actually think I've been, what, _ playing the long game? _Make the angel fall? Tempt him into a couple of nice lunches, split some wine, tie you up with a bow and ship you off to hell?"

“I–” Aziraphale started, but cut himself off. A strange combination of emotions crossed over his features, but Crowley could pick out the conflicted, torn ones easy enough. Betrayal coursed through his blood like a lethal injection, and all of a sudden nothing he’d ever said to the angel mattered anymore, not one word Aziraphale heard had ever been considered to be the truth. 

“Fine, no, that’s fine,” Crowley said, pushing against Aziraphale. He stepped back, his heart gripped by a cold, tight hand of despair.

“Why can’t you see they’ll all die?” asked Aziraphale, hand over his chest, the other held open towards the city. “We can _ do something.” _

Crowley threw his hands up. “You know I’m not just trying to screw you over. The city will survive, like it always has.”

Aziraphale winced, face crumpling like he’d been punched, and Crowley knew immediately that he’d said the wrong thing. He lowered his voice, making room for a tone of aching grief that echoed through it, rattling Crowley to his core. “No. No, it won’t. It didn’t survive, not really, after the Library burned. None of this part of the world did.”

Crowley flinched back. He knew what Aziraphale was imagining, remembering the flames eat away at knowledge that had taken millennia to build. His lips pressed together, fighting to urge to grab Aziraphale by the shoulders and shake him until he regained some small amount of sense. 

“I’ve seen what War can do,” he tried, losing momentum, realizing that there had never been a hope of convincing Aziraphale out of this. Not when it came to the library.

“As have I.” Aziraphale straightened up, shoulders back, hand twitching like he had sword still, ready to reach back for it. 

Instinctually, Crowley prepared, steeling himself for Aziraphale’s judgement. It came like a swift blade, cutting him down with a few words. 

“You are no acquaintance of mine, if you’re so willing to kill thousands of people. Stay out of my way villain, or I’ll won’t hesitate in doing what any other angel would have. Consider this your warning.”

Crowley opened his mouth, couldn’t speak. He closed it again. 

Nodding curtly, Aziraphale turned on his heels and Crowley watched dumbly as his retreating back left him at the docks. 

He thought he shouldn’t be as devastatingly hurt by the look Aziraphale gave him in return — he didn’t think Aziraphale would actually hurt him, at least not physically. There were too many years behind their odd companionship for that. Crowley, even if he was the only one to do, had considered it friendship. However, Aziraphale reverted to pretending to be a proper angel when he was angry, but this was the first time he’d ever walked away from Crowley trying to speak to him. The first time he’d ever shut him down so completely, unwilling to consider a word he said. 

The nearest glass to Crowley was flung as far as demonly possible into the Pharos Bay, wine splaying out in a crimson arc over the water before it fell. 

__________

Briseis sat up in bed, crinkling her nose into various different phases of crinkle as she made faces with the different expressions of her lips.

Persephone rolled her eyes in her chaise by the bedroom window, sipping her evening tea. "Don't think too hard over there."

“Do you think they even realize they forgot that they asked us to tail them?” Briseis asked, clearly bothered, . 

“No, not particularly,” Persephone said, lounging on the chaise beside her. “I am, however, fairly sure that they’re either into some weird roleplay stuff. That, or they’re batty.”

“They seemed so serious though,” Briseis muttered. Her face did more complex muscle gymnastics, sorting through the possibilities. “Angel and demon and war. It sounds kinda…”

“What, do you think they’re Cyril’s spies or something with the references to Christianity?” Persephone suggested, stretching out into cool, fluffy pillows. “I mean, we could always give them hokey information and see if it goes anywhere.”

Briseis thought about it for a second, but waved it away. “Eh, nah, they’re not the type. Come on, did you see those guys? They’re not made for politics." She yawned, picking at the linen beneath her. 

“I mean..." Persephone started, too innocent, too thoughtful a tone.

"Oh no," Briseis groaned.

"Could be that they're literally an angel and a demon,” Persephone said, lips stretching into a smirk. 

“Brilliant. I suppose Zeus is going to speak to me in my dreams tonight, reminding me know how far I’ve strayed from the acropolis.” Briseis pulled the covers over herself, settling in.

Persephone reached for the bedside table for the latest scroll she'd gotten from the library, detailing how to triangulate the circumference of the earth. 

“Hey, uh, miss curiosity over there? Go the fuck to bed,” said Briseis. 

“In a few,” Persephone waved her off. “I have some calculations to test.” 

“Scroll thief,” Briseis called out from under her safe haven of blankets.

“Borrowing,” answered Persephone, flipping a page. 

__________  


__________


	6. Everything That Could Hit The Fan Did Hit The Fan

There is, historically, very little known about Hypatia’s mother. Many believe she was also a scholar, and others would contend that she was a simple homemaker married to a brilliant man. Any of those theories would be wrong. She was actually something of an oracle. History doesn’t know about her because she didn’t think it would be very prudent to have the word “soothsayer” or “seer” anywhere near what was generally accepted as science. In a way, she was the same as a philosopher; the only difference was that she had to come up with the argument for the truth after being shown the truth, sans any actual instructions for how to get from point A to point B. 

Her name was Sibyl, a good many greats up the Nutter ancestry tree. Her hair was dark like volcanic rock, unlike her husband and daughter, and her eyes resembled a crow’s, if only for the intense way she stared too closely at your aura. Hypatia herself couldn’t remember much more than that — other than her teachings, which Hypatia remembered very clearly. 

Do unto others no harm. Harm dost give others their due. 

Theon explained it to her later on, when Hypatia asked. 

Don’t seek revenge; the universe will do that work for you, and to a more satisfying degree. 

A little much for a young Hypatia to understand fully, but she got the gist. 

He’d smiled wearily, crossed his legs beside her, and they discussed at length the multitude of lessons Sybil had given. As a girl, the idea of sharing time with each parent individually isn’t unusual. There’s little to question when your age is lower than the digits on your hands, but there is an infinite amount of curiosity. And children, as children do, observe better than the world’s most ardent scientist.* A developing brain picks up on connections older people might never see, and will, sometimes, remember things they didn’t even think were important at the time. 

_ *Or conspiracy theorist. _

And so, Theon explained. Hypatia asked him questions, of science, philosophy, and mathematics. When she left with Sybil, she asked her what it was like to see the colors signifying people’s moods, how Sibyl heard the words that she wrote down in the small book she carried with her. 

How she knew Hypatia would the starting domino to the fall of Rome. How, in that little book, described, _ “the winged pair whomso fly from above and below, find themselves in the burning confines of a great many books. Curiosity and her courage will move on to another place and flourish there.” _ It also imparted the entirety of Hypatia’s life to her in vivid detail. _ And daughter of mine, to perish for her knowledge. _She made peace with it a good many years back, used that knowledge of it to drive her to learn and write and love. 

And so when Aziraphale appeared at the library that evening, she smiled warmly at him. “I think you’re a few minutes early.”

__________

In retrospect, Aziraphale regretted a few bigger, more memorable actions in six thousand years of earth-dwelling. One of those things was quickly becoming the way he’d lashed out at Crowley, who was so achingly apparent in his intentions. He could see imploring golden eyes behind his dark shades that Aziraphale wasn’t so sure was all that clever in hiding them, but it was better than nothing, he supposed. It was all too easy to see them plead, knowing all too well that there were foolish things for even angels and demons to do. 

Aziraphale did his best not to think about it just then. 

Hypatia hummed thoughtfully over her cup of tea. “Troubled?”

“Nothing to worry about,” answered Aziraphale, smiling tiredly from where he sat across from her. There was a bowl of grapes in the middle of the table, but Aziraphale was, for once, not terrifically hungry for them. 

“Ah. Something to do with tall, dark, and exceedingly anxious?” she asked. 

Aziraphale let his head fall back, hitting it against the stone column behind him. “No.”

The philosopher had the gall to laugh, which lead Aziraphale to lifting his head enough to glare at her. 

She waved him off. “Don’t worry, I’ve got a very good sense of these sorts of things. He’ll be alright. I’m sure it’ll work itself out, sooner rather than later.” 

“Oh, good,” muttered Aziraphale, sitting up to sip at the warm tea. It was a good, comforting manner of dealing with stressful situations. 

Crossing her legs, Hypatia tilted her head towards the door. “Would you be at all inclined to attend the theater at the agora? They’re performing Prometheus tonight, and a few of my students are in the production.”

Aziraphale readily set his tea down, gathering his robes in his palm to stand. He welcomed the distraction. “I wouldn’t mind at all.”

“I have a feeling it’s a very good night to see the show,” she said, and smiled in a way that Aziraphale thought was a little too wistful for going to see her students perform in a play. Nonetheless, he followed, thinking he might not be the only one in need of a distraction.

The agora was open seated, a wide, rounded theater built from white carved stone. In the mornings, it held a marketplace crowded with farmers and spice merchants, where Aziraphale often visited Persephone when he was in town to buy some of her sweetbread. In the afternoons, it transitioned to an open forum, a public speaking place for all who wanted to have their opinions heard — it was an open mic, available to anyone who felt inclined to share opinion, invite debate. 

In the evenings, it transformed into a theater. Aziraphale and Hypatia sat near the front beside a couple students who saved their beloved teacher a seat. Pillars surrounded them, erected with the names of hundreds of heroes and kings, philosophers and mathematicians, artists and actors. A plethora of modern human accomplishment immortalized in names, where one might walk by and read them at random, know that they had done enough in their lives to be carved into the history of the agora. 

“Aziraphale, you know Orestes,” Hypatia said, poking the man in front of them with a devious smirk. “He’s the one who ruined your robes the last time you met.”

Orestes’ head dropped back, and it seemed like he only barely caught himself from groaning loudly when he realized who was sitting behind him. 

“Oh my gods, Hypatia please let it go. I am indeed very sorry about that, Aziraphale. I meant no ill-will by the mistake, and hope I apologized sufficiently for any trouble I caused you.”

Unable to hide a small snicker, Aziraphale shook his head. “I think you’re receiving more than your fair share of punishment, if I may say so.”

“You definitely may,” Orestes muttered, looking backwards to shoot Hypatia a heated glare before turning back around to focus on the play.

“Careful Orestes, you might end up with a permanent scowl. By the time you get your face carved into a bust, that’s all history will remember you by. Man with beard and scowl.”

“I am decidedly not listening to you any further.”

“You’re only angry because I give decent advice and speak the truth,” she answered, and then leaned over to Aziraphale and mock whispered, but still spoke loud enough for Orestes to hear. “That’s the reason most people get angry. Sometimes you can tell you’ve given fantastic advice just by how angry your friends get.” 

“You are a child.”

“That’s a compliment,” she responded lightly. 

From there on, the conversation subsided, and the play began, and Aziraphale quickly regretted partaking in the event.

Prometheus, dragged to the stage, was thin and haggard, hair long and tangled. White robes stained purposefully with dirt and singed by costume designers.

“Hephaestus.” An actor spoke to the man holding Prometheus aloft, dressed in a long, perfectly white robe, ribboned with golden stitching. “Your charge to clamp this miscreant upon the high craggy rocks in shackles of binding that cannot be broken. For your own fire, source of all arts, he has stolen and bestowed upon mortal creatures.” 

Aziraphale swallowed, hard. Right, yes, giver of fire to mankind, punished to get his innards devoured by an eagle every day for the rest of eternity. Damnation_ . _

Oh, now he remembered why he’d never gone to see this play in person before. 

“Behold me, an ill-fated god, chained for my great love of mankind!”

He closed his eyes. Crowley’s words flew back to him in a swarm of unwelcome thoughts, buzzing mercilessly around in his head. War was able to strike down angels and demons alike, and Crowley wasn’t wrongfully worried. Aziraphale was a fighter. But there was sound, unshakable logic in turning tail, living to fight another day. 

_ Make a strategic retreat when you know you can’t win. _

That was, in truth, the very thing Aziraphale was fighting against. His insistence to take on War was a symptom of the greater picture. He wanted nothing more than to listen to what would be strategically sound advice, do the angelic thing and listen to Gabriel. 

But he wasn’t breaking any rules yet. Hell wasn’t involved, not technically, so he couldn’t go to Heaven and ask for backup. Not like last time when he was made to watch the city burn into ash, watch it rebuild for hundreds of years, and still never reach the same height of art and knowledge it once did. 

He wondered, how the angels up in Heaven would feel if they were put on earth long enough, like he’d been. Would they feel the same? Would they come to love humans in the same way he had come to? Or was this just him that was so different?

“I must admit to you, Aziraphale, I didn’t bring you here because I thought you’d like to see the play.”

“Er,” Aziraphale started, frowning as he pulled from his musings, catching back up with Hypatia’s line of thought. “Then what…”

“I think you’re more important than you lead people to believe,” she started, a knowing smirk leveled in his direction, studying him from the side. “Not Roman at all, are you?”

“I believe I said I was from—”

“Rome, yes, I know what you said,” she said, fast, but gentler. “However, that isn’t very true either, is it?

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He realized, a bit belatedly, that he’d walked right into this. And unless he wanted to stand and interrupt the play, he was rather stuck. 

Slowly, his gaze met hers. “Hypatia, I think you may be overstepping.”

“Please hear me out, Aziraphale, this is important,” she said, reaching over to pat his hand. “You’re aware of the unrest in the city.”

He hesitated, searching for words to answer her carefully, unsure of whatever trap she’d just set for him. 

“You know I’m not from here, I can’t do much when I have no say in politics myself,” he started, glancing down at her hands. They seemed to be cold, shaking slightly. His eyes snapped back up to meet hers, and he realized all at once that he was looking into the eyes of a woman who’d accepted a fate.

“And perhaps that’s why.” She tightened her fingers over his, lowering her voice to a lower tone that no one might overhear. Aziraphale didn’t particularly feel threatened by the action, but he did have the inkling he was playing the part of a mouse with a large, albeit very kind, cat. “You come from many cities, many places. You can see things, observe them objectively where we cannot.”

Frowning, Aziraphale, turned his head to find her staring back. Her eyes, dark and wide and curious, looked back at him, and repeated, slower, “you can see things we cannot.”

Aziraphale, with all the grace of a bat suddenly transported from a cave to five hundred feet above an open canyon, fluttered his hands and thought he said something like, “my dear, you’re being ridiculous,” but it sounded a lot more like a flustered, _“bunches of olives!”_

An annoyed couple shushed him from behind. 

Hypatia shook her head, whispering back. “You’re terribly obvious. I don’t quite care what you are, physically or otherwise. You’re my friend.” 

There were many things Aziraphale could do, and one of those things involved being able to snap his fingers to make someone forget they had ever seen him do anything particularly “angel-y.” He wasn’t sure why he didn’t do so immediately now.

Except, he did know. 

There was a glimmer in her eyes, and it was too close to desperation for Aziraphale to do much besides wince, make an unseemly noise, and mutter, “I take it that you would only bring this to my attention…?”

“If I needed something from you, yes.” She hesitated. That was notable. Hypatia, as a rule, did not hesitate. She did not mumble, or half-ass a statement, or wait to see if a better option came along — she acted. That is not to say she wasn’t careful. 

When she opened her mouth again, her lips formed words with a wary caution. “You see, that’s why Persephone isn’t here tonight either. Normally, she would have joined us, but I have this feeling that Cyril is planning something. She’s packing scrolls away back at the Library because I believe it’s going to be tonight. What I need, Aziraphale, is your promise that you will do all you can to escape with as many scrolls as you can manage.”

Aziraphale stared, open mouthed until he regained his bearings. “What? Tonight, but how do you know—”

Hypatia squeezed his hand in her own, stopping his questioning before it began. “I’m sorry to put you on the spot, but I feared you wouldn’t agree otherwise.” 

Startled by the realization that she’d been planning on creating a situation in which he couldn’t outright refuse, Aziraphale stammered. “I’m not certain that…”

“Promise me.” Her face was tense, lips tight, ready to plead with him. 

_ Sorrow, _he thought with a dawning realization.

“I… yes. Alright. Of course I’ll do everything I can if the texts are in danger, Hypatia,” Aziraphale said. She let out a long exhale of what Aziraphale could only read as relief, and grew more concerned at her relaxed smile. 

An angel can do a few neat tricks on account of being an angel. One of those things is reading humans very well, and sometimes seeing their soul’s intent. What he could not do was understand why there was such a sensation of peace from her, or why, when he looked now, there was an odd aura surrounding her. 

Applause erupted around them, barring anything Aziraphale might have said, though he missed what they were clapping for entirely. He did the same, joining in while caught up on the strange interaction with Hypatia. If he didn’t know any better, and what was quickly becoming a more real, awful feeling in his stomach, was that she was setting up for backup plans in preparation for a worst case scenario. He’d had seen it a thousand times since he’d been put to earth, the want to get all the business in order before dying. 

She knew he was an angel — or at the very least, ethereal. He didn’t understand how, or why, but she knew more than others had ever hazarded a guess at. 

“Hypatia, my dear,” he started, but she hushed him and tossed him a conspiratorial wink.

“You have your secrets, Aziraphale, and I have mine.” Her brown eyes were sparkling with mischief, and spoke to a knowledge and depth that weren’t possessed by most humans even late in life. Aziraphale was startled that he was only seeing the true extent of it now. 

Before he was able to confront her about what the blazes _ that _ was, the applause came to a very quick and stuttering halt. The rumbling sound of thunder across the stand was replaced by low murmurs, and the slithering whispers of hundreds of people melded together like a stream forced to change direction.

Aziraphale felt the change, a powerful presence appearing in his angelic sight like a strike of lightning to a dry field. Nothing, no sign of a disturbance; and then, the world shifted, blinding as a flash of white that disorients. He shut his eyes and leaned forward, pressing a hand to his forehead with a soft groan.

“Aziraphale?” Hypatia asked, concern lining her tone. 

Aziraphale shooed her hovering hands away, shaking his head. “‘m fine, don’t worry.”

A male voice boomed out over the agora, and Aziraphale belatedly realized why the shift in energy had occurred in the first place. 

“Pray, hear our Patriarch Cyril, who holds the rites of God in his hand, and decrees the will of our Lord Almighty,” said the narrator of the play, who was suddenly accosted to speak for the patriarch of the city. 

Cyril, as far as Aziraphale could tell, was not actually present. He had, instead, sent a messenger with a decidedly short letter.

“Our Great Father Cyril, who protects and loves this city, and holds no higher esteem than to the people of Alexandria,” the man shouted, clear and harsh across the silent agora. “He who speaks for Emperor Theodosius, bade the pagans of the inner walls no longer, and hereby banishes all who reject the will of our good Christian faith.”

“That absolute _ bastard,” _Hypatia hissed beside Aziraphale.

Aziraphale found himself busy searching for another. The true source of the energy surge, who wore stark red, hair pulled up into a mess atop her head, who Aziraphale couldn’t have missed even if he couldn’t pick her out. She possessed enormous amounts of power, enough to cause Aziraphale harm enough to disorient him, but her aura — her aura was black as the void of death itself. 

War stood patiently on the sidelines of the stage, surrounded by confused actors who were pretty sure she wasn’t part of the play, torn between their attention to Cyril and to her, standing poised to the side. 

The agora was no longer a theater but a school of fish unknowingly trapped in a net. 

Hypatia sat up straighter, and Aziraphale realized too late what a soldier’s mark that small motion had been, preparing oneself for battle. He couldn’t stop her from standing, stepping up from the floor to stand upon the bench. 

“No,” she called, stern as the harshest teacher of the Serepeum, authority inimitable in the din of the agora. Sighing, Aziraphale gave in and waved a subtle finger, and her voice was heard above it all.

She glanced down for a second, as if she knew what Aziraphale had done, but spared nothing more to it. 

“The moment you let him own your fear is the moment you lose the fight, and that is the moment you lose your rights. We, the people, are this city. We are not Rome. We are not Egypt. We aren’t foolish heathens who separate ourselves by differences that boil us down to one thing or another,” she said. Hypatia looked out to the hushed crowd, bidding them to action.

Her voice was inimitable, drawn up by a force that was not Heaven or Hell or any power but human. She was their teacher, the most beloved scholar, and this was her podium. 

“How utterly stupid Cyril is,” she continued, “to test our uniformity this way. How foolish he will be when he is pushed back and usurped from his blasphemous throne!”

Her voice rose in pitch in the last call to arms. Aziraphale was too busy readying himself to block an attack to her that he didn’t see anything else coming.

Orestes tipped back from the bench in front of them, almost silent, until someone screamed. Hypatia shouted in alarm, reaching out to catch him as he fell. 

The moment Orestes went down, nothing remained to keep the peace. 

Aziraphale began to stand, his wrist caught only by Hypatia at the last moment, her wide eyes filled with unfallen tears. He jerked upright, the instincts of an angel snapping him to attention, and he looked for who he knew had chosen him as prey. 

War met his eyes upon the stage, laughed in delight, and slit Prometheus’ throat. 

__________

Crowley was not morose. He was not moping. There was nothing about the demon that could be counted as throwing a tantrum. What he was doing, in his own head, was pretending to think up a hundred different ways to do demon-like things to the angel who so clearly didn’t want anything to do with him. 

And now he was one glass down, left with an incomplete set. Unless he really wanted to try and miracle up the handmade finery from the bottom of the bay and deal with the potential fishes that came with it, he was stuck without. 

Which is why he drank straight from the wine-filled amphora. The only reason he did so. 

It was whilst throwing back alcohol on his boat that he saw a familiar girl with dark hair rush across the dock and duck behind a stack of crates. He watched as she snuck about, her head twisting left and right, before moving onto the next. When she got nearer, Crowley was leaning onto the railing of his boat, arms crossed over the ornate wood, pottery set down beside him.

"Oi, you know I can see you, right?"

Briseis bristled, air puffed into her cheeks as she hurried up along the pier. "Wasn't hiding from you. I was sneaking away from my father, you bludgeoned quail," she said. Her chiton was gathered in her hands, flung angrily over her shoulder, and she stormed up the ramp.

Crowley turned to face her, leaning his elbows back against the edge. "No need for name calling."

"There's plenty need," she said, an impervious hand on her hip. "Call me all the way out her in the middle of the night and, um, excuse me?" She waved a hand in front of him.

"Right, yes, called you here for a reason." Crowley looked away from the stars and back at her. "Look, I needed a favor. All that stuff you found out? Yeah, all of that, you should just let it go."

"Let it _go_? What, you're mad, you—"

"I'm not mad, I'm making perfect sense._ " _Crowley stood up, taking one step nearer. "Everything you found. Persephone — you know, the lady-love you're denying entirely, totally obvious that you two were talking to both me and Aziraphale?"

Briseis caught herself and stared off somewhere past Crowley, biting the inside of her cheek. Listening, for once.

"Yeah, I’m not entirely blind. Aziraphale still has no idea, if that’s any consolation. Point being, Cyril’s going to try and kill them, soon." 

The girl stilled. She turned her head, very slowly, to stare at him. "Explain. Right now."

"I went to that meeting you told me about, found out a really fun couple of things from people you don't really want to tangle with," Crowley said. "They're actively planning on murdering everyone who make a noise about "getting along," and that nutball Cyril is probably going to start culling people soon enough. So you need to forget making peace, grab your girly girl, and leave. _Capiche_?”

Her mouth emitted some form of distressed noise, stammering for words. “But—”

“Sometimes you need to cut your losses, grab what you can. I’m telling you so you can have the chance to get out while you can, before this blows up in all of our faces,” Crowley said, frowning hard and long into the dark water over the side of his boat. 

“Yeah, okay, fine,” Briseis said, looking for all the world like she was holding back her actual thoughts, but Crowley didn’t really care so long as she listened. “So everything we’ve been working to avoid, we’re just giving up now?”

Crowley sighed heavily, rubbing his forehead with a tired hand. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s what we’re doing.”

“That’s… huh. I hadn’t pegged you as a coward,” Briseis sneered.

Crowley stepped closer, jaw set in teeth-grating fury. “Get. Off. My. Boat.” 

He was this close to turning into something unspeakably horrible just to watch her fall over the railing. 

She scoffed, turning her back to him. “You fucking leave then, I’m not calling it quits yet.” She’d only taken a few steps before they slowed, coming to a stop. Briseis froze, suddenly very very still. 

Crowley was too busy feeling his fangs grow from his human teeth. He hissed, “I _ said— _”

“Oh God,” she whispered. 

Crowley stopped, his gaze snapping up to where her eyes were caught — there, the beginnings of rising smoke, dark and heavy against the dark night sky, only visible when you were looking for the stars it concealed behind thick clouds. 

“No. _ Nonono. _” Crowley took a shaky step forward, because that was all he could do, a slow, crawling horror that scratched icy claws down his back. 

The screaming began, and the cries repeated themselves, the same words spreading across the city like one mockingbird to another, and another. The Serapeum was burning. 


	7. Books Get Burned In This Chapter

Fire is seen in one of two lights. 

One: fire burns. It destroys what i meets in its path, affords no remorse, and breaks down flesh and matter to fine particles of ash that robs all it touches of their individuality, into the powder-fine tones of grey. Fire burns, and we all burn the same.

Two: fire warms. It’s the difference between venturing too near the sun and stepping closer to a bonfire on a snow laiden night, or holding a hand out in the hope that someone will twine their fingers in with yours. 

Fire is life’s driving force. Prometheus gave fire to humans and Icarus fell from the sun. 

In every human creation, there is the essence of something unnamable and greater than themselves. With the library, they collected and learned. With the lighthouse, they beckoned and said “come home.” With all of it, they love, and they can’t help but to share it. 

Fire reveals desire and fear, but it’s the temptation — the curiosity — that exposes who people are. 

It’s indiscriminate. It can forgive, and it can damn, because we all burn the same. We are made of ash, and we are made of stardust, and there is good, and there is bad, and there are angels, and there are demons. 

__________

__________

In six thousand years, Aziraphale saw so, so much. The good, wonderous things human made for themselves, and how they brought it crashing down again. He thinks he may have coined the phrase, “two steps forward, three steps back.” And if his suspicions were correct, the rising turmoil was going to tear the greatest city in the world down again. 

Unless, of course, he did the duty he was commended for as Principality; watch humans, love humans, thwart demons. If humans liked to destroy themselves, that was on them. It was a waste of resources for the heavenly host to putz around on earth when humans were just going to do it to themselves again and again. 

The angels saw it this way: the earth was an ant farm. There were millions of ant farms across the universe. It was nice to look down and watch humans run around, live their lives, die. But it was nothing out of the ordinary, not for them. 

There was nothing special about earth.

And Aziraphale agreed with them in almost every manner. Most manners. Some manners. 

Alexandria brought back memories he’d prefer to leave in the past. The city itself was never the same city it once was; the same thirst for knowledge waned, the relentless hunt for books coming to a halt. In the face of civil war and the burning of its heart, Alexandria never truly recovered. On occasion, Aziraphale could smell fire as he walked through the streets, and he only really came here when he was feeling particularly melancholic. Not that angels felt melancholic. No, but when angels were left on earth too long, they might feel sympathetic towards humans. On a purely theoretical count. 

There were days that he wished he wasn’t such a terrible angel. He tried, he really did, to do as Heaven saw fit. But when someone asks him to save the lifeblood of a library, he had little choice in the matter anymore. 

“I need you to do what you promised,” said Hypatia. They had escaped the agora, dragging a bleeding Orestes inside the Serapeum. Hundreds of others had hold up inside, scrambling to bar the doors. Shrieking had begun to fill the streets, followed by the clangs of swords. 

What they don’t explain well about warfare is that there is no pattern. The textbook illustrations in history classes have men marching in synch, moving in time, keeping step with a marching tune. 

Aziraphale knelt beside the governor, hands fluttering above him in a frantic haze. “I, I can do something, I know I can—”

“Aziraphale!” he heard another voice, younger, and Aziraphale sucked in a breath.

“Persephone, what are you doing here?” Hypatia interjected before Aziraphale had the chance. Assured that she was getting a good talking-to from Hypatia, he turned his attention back to the man laying still across the floor, blood seeping from his side. 

“Okay, okay, okay,” he muttered. “Sorry, I have to do this. Probably better than being dead, but I wouldn’t really know.”

He reached a hand out, pressed it into Orestes’ side. It wasn’t a mortal wound like he thought it was — it was going to be a terrible bother for the next few weeks, but Aziraphale could take away the pain of it. At least, enough for Orestes to escape. The other man groaned, eyes fluttering, clearing as the pain dissipated. 

“There,” he said, and stood up. He was faced with Hypatia, who pulled him into a fierce hug before he knew what was happening. 

“Thank you,” she whispered. She stepped back, breathing in deeply. “Now, do what you promised me you’d do.”

__________

What ended up catching the library ablaze was not War herself. There was the inevitable riot that erupted like a volcano across the city, an outbreak of human wrath clashing against one another. Aziraphale hadn’t thought fire could spread so quickly. 

He darted past the open courtyard, Persephone on his heels. Flames burned bright on either side of them, threatening to overtake their dwindling choices of exists. 

“Persephone, I told you to go home_ ,” _Aziraphale shouted, grabbing her shoulder and yanking her back from a pillar about to fall. “You foolish child!”

“The city is on fire, where the hell do you want me to go?” she answered, her voice cracking over the syllables she had to reach to be heard. Fire snapped beside her, and Aziraphale waved a decisive hand to push it away from her. Persephone looked at him in confusion for a split second, but didn’t have the time to ask silly questions like _ how did you do that? _

He didn’t need the added responsibility of keeping this poor girl from dying horribly in fire. He needed to move, to get back to Hypatia, who was nearby, he could sense her, and she must be moving scrolls into the cart waiting outside. There were a dozens of people scurrying around, grabbing what they could. There were artifacts to be saved, the scrolls, pieces of artwork. 

He froze, breath catching in his chest, gripped tightly by some force he couldn’t name. 

The Library of Alexandria was suddenly there, bright and orange and everything he’d ever loved so dearly alight with flames. He’d have preferred anything to this — anything at all. He’d have preferred Falling. He remembered the day he’d come to Alexander when he’d roamed around the countryside founding dozens of cities named after himself, where he’d appeared to him in his ethereal form, pointed to a spot along the coast and said, “This is quite a nice spot for reading here on the cost. You might make a holy host a nice spot to sit while you’re at all this pillaging, if you wouldn’t mind. I’ve got an idea for a nice place to hold my books — I mean, shared. Yes, of course, for everyone to share, obviously. Might as well build it big then, yes?” 

And how proud Alexander had been to appease an angel, who came to him and inspired the creation of the city of knowledge. How it burned Aziraphale more than Hellfire might have, to see it fall in the span of hours, frozen in fear of Heavenly retribution should he intervene in something humans did of their own Free Will. 

“-iraphale. Aziraphale!” Persephone smacked his arm, hard. “Get ahold of yourself and _ move _.” 

Remembered terror pulled Aziraphale from his moment of stupor. Fear was unfamiliar to him in this sense — he didn’t know it in battle, never felt the hesitation typical of a new angel given a sword and told to strike down the enemy. He did as he was told, he performed his duties, and he never wavered. 

But then, he’d never owned a books back then, no such thing as a book in the beginning. He’d never known the value of companionship, or warmth of wine, the sweetness of honey. Not until after, until he’d watched the others Fall, until he stood on the edge of a garden wall and thought, _ “is this what uncertainty feels like?” _

Gabriel’s voice echoed in his head, reminding him. These are only humans. They mean little in the grand scheme of things. They aren’t worth the time and effort to save. 

And so there was the choice. Help, or step back, let the humans destroy themselves. 

Spurned into motion, Aziraphale grabbed onto Persephone and dragged her away from the largest, most treacherous looking path. The columns were this close to falling, and the angel was having none of it. 

Compartmentalize, yes, that was the way to handle it. There was fire, and there was a child, and there were books. Three factors, simple enough, and he could push his way into fixing them all. 

Then, the sudden arrival of a cruel, dark, endless presence. He’d expected it, but he was ill prepared for it. 

“Well, nothing to do for it,” he murmured to himself. Aziraphale put a hand on the young woman’s shoulder, kind but firm. “Persephone, I need you to run through there and find Hypatia. She’s already loading scrolls away. Do you understand?”

“The hell are _ you _ gonna do?” she asked, hands flailing to the mayhem around them. 

Aziraphale felt his wings on another plane, stretching out, twitching in anticipation. “Bit of heavenly wrath, I should think.”

He didn’t wait for Persephone’s inevitably baffled response, snapping a hand down so as to widen a path between the flames for her exit. He turned and stepped with purpose out of the open room and down one of the column-lined halls, straight for the black hole he felt soiling the sacred space of his library. 

There were auras, and then there was the disturbing lack of one. Aziraphale closed his eyes, fighting the urge not to run, but the face her head on, declare war upon the impossible. 

Aziraphale sucked in a hard breath, forcing himself into a state of calm. Charging into a battle without a plan, much less a weapon, was precisely the opposite of what he was trained to do. Born to do, really; he’d been created with the purpose of warfare, of knowing every strategy and possessing an innate talent for fearsome swordsmanship. 

On this side of the Serapeum, it was disturbingly quiet — there were no humans, no screaming or shouting. Bodies littered the ground, blood pooling between the cracks of marble tiling beneath his feet. War sat at the front of the room, perched on the chair wiping a short blade clean on her red robes, turning the bloodied fabric black. 

“An angel,” she said, tilting her head curiously. “How interesting. You all alone, kiddo?”

“I believe I’ve been around a little longer than yourself,” Aziraphale corrected. He leaned down, plucked a sword from the hands of a man, meeting his empty brown eyes for a second, thanking him for the weapon in his head. He’d fought well, died unfairly. His soul, Aziraphale could feel, was destined for a safe place.

“Oh, I think I’m older than you realize, dear Principality. How thoughtful it was, to give me strength, showing the humans that they could slaughter lions,” she said. She smiled, almost reverent. “I’m grateful.” 

Her lips were stained, like she’d kissed the blade, or drank the blood of her victims. This creature was what humans had written about for centuries now — the Homeric epics, the works of Hesiod, the dramas or Virgil.

He stood up, grasping it firmly in his hand. “Do tell me further about how you’ll destroy me. Believe me, I’ve lived a long time. Heard it all before.” 

“Sorry that we’ve never had the pleasure of meeting face to face,” she answered with a shrug. “Though, I hear we run around the same circles. Helen of Sparta was a pet project of mine.”

Aziraphale might have pinched his nose if he weren’t so incensed. “Yes yes, Odysseus was mine, can we jimmy a little quicker with this already? You’re quite an irritating person to converse with, and I do tire easily of social redundancies.” 

Her blade swung in a practiced circle, teeth showing as she pulled it back in a ready stance. “Excellent.”

__________

Panic. Crowley was right now, essentially the single-most condensed form of it. He and Briseis bolted from where they stood, pounding down the dock, and rushed through the streets that swarmed with people filing out of their houses. 

“This way,” Crowley called, and grabbed for her wrist to pull her out of the path of of a wayward horse that stampeded past. 

“Great, just fucking fantastic,” Briseis shouted, shoving a man back with a furious growl when he got too close and tried to push by her in an attempt to flee. “We’re over here, Persephone and your great pale fruitcake are on the _ other side of the agora, _and there’s thousands of people with sharp objects between us and them!” 

“I know!” A series of expletives left Crowley’s mouth in a jumble, pausing to look around in a frantic circle, hoping for some divine, or hellish, or human intervention for this. He sucked in a breath, swallowed, and let it out slowly. 

He looked at the nearest open aqueduct, wincing at the idea of using a canal for his purposes. But, as needs must, there was no other direct way to the Serapeum. Molecules were molecules, and if there was a direct path of them — well, it’d be one Hell of a miracle. 

“Right. Okay. Nothing else to do,” he muttered, hesitating when he looked at Briseis. “You have three seconds to answer or I’m leaving without you. You absolutely, definitely want to go rescue book girl and risk your life doing it?”

“What kind of question is that?” 

“Answer it,” Crowley hissed. He looked up, could see the orange glow of a fire casting light onto nearby buildings now, flames spreading like a plague. 

“Yes, alright, yeah,” Briseis answered. Her shoulders were tense, serious emerald eyes imploring, expecting something but not knowing what. “Without hesitation.”

Crowley nodded. “Cool.”

“Dude, if you’ve actually got a plan—”

“Sort of,” Crowley said, and grasped her arm. He snapped his fingers. 

__________

The forum — even with the sharp crackles of fire from outside, not quite reaching the building yet — echoed in a way not dissimilar from how an empty canyon might echo back: useless, extraneously loud, and left one feeling a lot more alone by the time you’d walked through. Sometimes, rarely, there were people you might come across in the canyon who might be friendly, but more likely wanted to gut you and sell the clothes on your body for profit. 

For all Orestes was concerned, Cyril may as well have been a stab-happy satyr who hid behind rocks in wait and kept his victims stacked in the corner of a cave somewhere. It wasn’t hard to imagine him with tiny horns and hooves. 

When Orestes found Cyril, he was in the very same room he’d met with him in before, complete with a large stone chair, acting as a throne.

“Are you happy with yourself? Alexandria is going to ruins. You haven’t won anything,” Orestes growled. 

“Somehow, I thought you lived,” Cyril muttered, running a hand over his beard. He scoffed. “I’ve won plenty. The goal was never to unite anyone. Sometimes, the best thing is to burn down the house infested with termites, rebuild a better, newer palace where a hut once stood.”

Orestes faltered in his step, a sharp breath drawn in. He didn’t feel the wound in his side as he should have, but it twinged painfully with the motion of his lungs. “You monster, these people trusted you.”

“And put their trust in me they have, rightfully so,” he answered, unbidden by Orestes’ rising temper. “A forest burns, it grows back taller, greener, stronger. New life flourishes. I can’t help if you’re too narrow-minded not to see that.”

Orestes crinkled his face in disgust. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of meeting someone more insane than you.”

“You know, I think I’m going to enjoy this,” said Cyril, who chuckled despite himself, looking Orestes up and down. 

“Oh, I’m sure you will.” Orestes tightened his hold on his sword, falling into a stance he knew well, circling Cyril, watching as Cyril mirrored his steps. 

When their swords clashed, Cyril’s blade lit up in a spiral of flame. 

“Okay, sure,” said Orestes, who slammed his sword down harder against rigid steel of Cyril’s sword with added enthusiasm. 

__________

“What did you just do?” Briseis asked, gasping wildly, head darting around like she was being attacked by swarms of birds. Fire dropped down from the ceiling, causing them both to yelp and dart to miss the falling debris. 

“I got us here, ‘kay? Don’t ask questions, I’m busy, I don’t want to answer,” he said. Briseis hesitated only a moment longer to stare in open suspicion before she bolted and ran for the library part of the Serapeum, where she knew Persephone would be. 

Crowley started towards the place he felt Aziraphale’s presence, but was stopped by the woman Aziraphale seemed to be such keen friends with.

“Crowley,” Hypatia said, looking relieved to see him. She had an armful of scrolls pressed against her chest, her hair fallen around her shoulders, and she was bleeding around her side. “I was looking for you.”

“Hypatia?” Crowley started, looking down in alarm. “What—” 

“Ran into a few friends who don’t like me. Doesn’t matter, don’t have time,” she panted, reaching out to grab his arm. “Aziraphale is going to need your help. Go, right now.”

“No, I think that’s a bad idea,” he said, eyeing the way she was breathing like she couldn’t catch her breath, and even in the smoke it sounded wet and labored. "Hang on, no, we can fix this." He looked frantically around for an answer. But there was no nearby exit, no open water he could use as a conduit to miracle her through, no way to get her out.

Then she said perhaps the only thing that might have gotten him to move. She took his hands, pulling them tight to her chest. “I’ll be fine. It's okay, I promise. Aziraphale will die if you don’t leave right now. Permanently.”

The fire burned around them, but he felt ice cold. Fear trickled through his blood, throat closing over. Permanent, she said, as in, she knew about them, and discorporation, and his thoughts stuck hard on the words, stopped, replayed in his head a few times. 

_ Aziraphale will die. _

“Okay,” he said hoarsely, swallowing down a lump in his throat born of terror. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

“Hush. He’s important. More so than he let on.” Hypatia smiled and patted his arm, and he felt his eyes water. “Shame we couldn’t have hung out together more, I’d like to think we might have been good friends.”

When Crowley left her, she had knelt to the ground and picked up a scroll, unrolling the pages like it was casual reading. Tears pricked at his eyes, but he ran, imagining Aziraphale limp upon the ground, hands covering a scroll as if it was more important than himself. He forced it away, but the scene burned behind his eyes, the unthinkable outcome where he would never truly see the color blue again. 


	8. In Which An Angel And Demon Don't Take Shit

War danced backwards, toeing in and out of the lined walls of shelving. A blinding heat devoured them as she went, wood and papyrus crumbling into ash. "Growing tired already, angel?” she taunted. 

Aziraphale growled, falling back into a practiced step. The word _ angel _came from her mouth so easy, and it felt dirty to hear it in another tone than fond. He hated that about her. He also really, really hated her long, nimble legs. They were fast, and darted around him, and Aziraphale was losing his patience for them. 

It took him too long to realize that she invested most of her powers into her sword. Where he’d been prepared for a fight of other-worldly power, she threw that cursed force the humans had created her from into the blade. It was heavy, and strong, and could have bested a lesser soldier.

It was a good thing he was built for a single duty, that he threw everything he was into that divine purpose, once. 

Her body twisted, arcing back down in a low sweep that nearly knocked Aziraphale onto his knees. He caught the strike of steel against his own, pushing back, intent on gaining some ground. War broke from the hold, whirling around to regain her footing. 

“I can’t remember the last time someone held up this long against me,” she said. “I’ll be sure to remember you, Principality.”

“Lord, do you ever shut up?” Aziraphale asked, pausing to pant and shoot her the bitchiest, most unimpressed look he could manage. 

War did something that was almost giggling, but Aziraphale thought it was far creepier. “Oh, little angel, I think I’ll have more fun with you yet.”

Aziraphale tried to ignore the way the fire was closing in around them, the way the bookshelves were burning, all the texts he swore to protect, shooting up in flames. But here was a beast, and he couldn’t leave it be, not when she would kill whoever she saw in the streets. At least this way, he was fulfilling his duty as an angel, his true purpose. 

He didn’t want to admit it, but he was winded. He’d die before letting it show, but War was something of human-make; it wouldn’t be so easily destroyed by ethereal powers. It wasn’t impossible. It couldn’t be. 

Her eyes had turned red, dark with bloodlust. She could play the waiting game, knew when to charge, pulled back when needed. Aziraphale, as trained, _ made _for this as he was, wasn’t sure how long he could keep it up. 

“Oh, now that’s interesting,” she said, tilting her head to the side like a curious predator. She backpedaled to circle around Aziraphale, brows raised. “You have friends?”

Aziraphale stared back, not quite grasping the change in topic. “What?”

“You can’t sense it? Poor dear, you must be more tired than I thought.” She pouted, clicking her tongue. “Pity.”

He didn’t see her move. She was gone from the spot, and he misjudged, assumed too much of her powers—

Her presence was too fast, and he could only turn to see her throw something bright and orange in his direction. He knew it to be Hellfire by instinct, throwing himself to the floor to avoid it. 

She scoffed. “Well, that was all I had of that stash, lucky you.” 

Aziraphale looked up, and she threw dark, black dust into his face, and he thought _ fuck. _

Ash left from the remnants of something burned by Hellfire. 

There was a moment where it all went black, and everything burned, and Aziraphale thought that was it, he was done for. It took him too long to realize that it was only his eyes that stung, burned like they were on fire themselves. It took him longer to realize that War had disappeared, even from his senses.

“Aziraphale!”

The angel blinked, blearily searching through the smoke. His heart jumped into his throat. 

“Crowley?” he tried, rubbing a hand over his eyes. Tears streamed from them, and now his hand burned like the dickens. 

He didn’t know where War had gone — he couldn’t sense her anymore. if she was still around, where she was waiting for the next move. He hadn’t even known it was possible to hide one’s aura, but she’d managed it, and now he couldn’t even see straight. He couldn’t hear Crowley’s voice anymore, and that sent alarm bells up his spine. There were shapes in front of him, materializing out of the dark shadows. He stepped backwards as one came closer, readying his sword.

“Angel, stop, it’s just me,” said Crowley, and Aziraphale lowered the sword immediately. 

“Oh_ ,” _said Aziraphale. “Good.”

“_ Holy fuck, _ what happened to your eyes?” Hands touched his face, light and blessedly cool against the fire. “Good? You look like you’ve been to—well, Hell and back, and you want to say _ good?” _

Aziraphale grumbled, rubbing at one with a free hand. “She got me. Probably not permanent. Hopefully.” 

“Shit,” Crowley muttered. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“Beyond imperative sight necessary to defend ourselves? No mortal wounds, so far as I’m aware,” Aziraphale answered, shifting his hold on the sword. It was still a familiar weight, and even without one of his senses, he didn’t feel entirely vulnerable.

“Er, you held off War with that little thing?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale could imagine him pointing skeptically at his pilfered sword, and would have rolled his eyes if they were at all capable of it at the moment. 

“What, do you think they just give swords to angels who don’t know how to use them?”

“Huh. I mean, no,” the demon answered. He coughed. “Wasn’t doubting your end.”

Crowley, at least, sounded unharmed and relatively normal.

Aziraphale looked like he wanted to argue. Like he was really, truly about to start a fight. The anger left him in a rush of breath, and a hand came up to cover his eyes. Crowley let him go and stepped back.

He was still angry with the demon, though the time spent following the previous evening had cooled his temper. Despite his harsh words, Aziraphale was intrinsically aware that Crowley’s heart was in the right place, though his caring nature seemed to manifest coming out in increasingly ridiculous ways over the years. The fact remained that Crowley hadn’t wanted Aziraphale in the city — but it was because he hadn’t known the extent of danger Aziraphale would be in if he stayed. 

Crowley, as loathe as Aziraphale was to admit it,* a friend. 

_ *He wasn’t loathe to admit this. A tad huffy, perhaps. _

"Crowley, I'm sorry." His hands gripped the sword handle tighter, grimacing. "You didn't deserve what I said.

Crowley shook his head — or that was what he was approximating from the motion he saw in front of him. Mostly, he could feel the relief rolling off the demon in a way that was entirely not subtle. "Better be, for that one."

“Yes, I’ll make it up to your properly later. More oysters in Rome, that wasn’t a half bad suggestion,” Aziraphale said, pulling Crowley back from the bookshelf leaning too far forward, flames licking through the wood. He lacked sight, but he had every other sense. 

“Good plan, inspired idea, can we leave now?” Crowley asked, grabbing hold of Aziraphale’s wrist and tugging towards the least hot area, looking about for the best given exit. 

Strategic retreat. 

A good plan. 

A smart, entirely logical plan.

Aziraphale took a deep breath, and yanked his wrist back. “No. I can’t leave, not yet. I made a promise.” 

“Okay, um, you’re blind right now and you want to—”

“Blind, not useless,” Aziraphale corrected. 

War was waiting nearby, he knew, but there was something more important to take care of. “Crowley,” he said urgently, touching the demon’s arm. “If I distract her, can you miracle as many scrolls out of here as you can?”

“You’re still blind,” Crowley reminded, waving a hand in front of his face. 

“It’s just a bit blurry,“ Aziraphale grumbled, and then snapped when Crowley hesitated more. “The longer you take to agree, the less time we have!”

Crowley looked torn, guilty even. He sucked in a deep breath. “Okay. Okay. Don’t get killed.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Same to you.” 

Aziraphale blocked when War came in like a bull, a frontal attack that was less strategic and clearly just for her own enjoyment. The angel grit his teeth together, flipping his sword around his wrist. 

“Thank you, just what I needed, I was out of practice,” he muttered, grunting when she feinted left, and he barely caught her on the right. 

His body moved the way he remembered, trained even still to move without thinking. He slid his foot forward, planting it into the ground to keep his stance stable. He shifted his weight, balancing one foot to the other, ready for the different strikes War liked to do. She favored strength over aiming for any specific location, but she was good enough at both of those things that it didn’t make shielding himself from it any easier. 

Aziraphale dropped lower, holding his sword up while she pushed down, slamming down hard enough into his arms to bruise.

An involuntary _ oof _was forced out when he was hit hard enough to disorient. It was enough to send him staggering back a few steps. He cursed, gathering himself neatly up again, unwilling to stay down for longer than a moment. She would take advantage of any of it if he gave her any quarter. 

It was when Aziraphale glanced at Crowley that was his undoing. 

He could see War remember all at once that Crowley was there, in the back amongst the thick smoke, miracling scrolls out and away from the library. 

It was a mistake to let himself make, not paying attention to where War was going to aim next, but one he wasn’t willing to let happen again. It served as a painful reminder that he wasn’t here alone, and that Crowley was equally as in danger of being killed. 

Time slowed. There was, at most, a second of spare time to consider his options. But really, there were none to consider. His legs moved before his thoughts could catch up, inserting himself between Crowley and War, barely managing to catch the sword against his own. The reach was awkward, and the metal slipped just enough, allowing her direct access to a weak point. 

Blades occupied between their bodies, Mars lifted her knee and kicked, cramming her foot into his stomach. He let out a low cry, coughing before he could catch his breath again. The force of her foot crushing the softer parts of his body was sharp and ruthless, sending him crashing into a bookshelf in the back of the room. 

Crowley rushed for him, grabbing hold of Aziraphale’s shoulders before he could lose his balance a second time, dragging him backwards, away from War’s immediate reach. Aziraphale coughed, Crowley sliding to his knees beside him. Aziraphale was winded, but somehow kept a hold on his sword. 

“Aziraphale,” he said, grasping putting a hand on his shoulder. “Please, we need to leave, you’re exhausted.”

He panted raggedly, wincing at the way he moved wrong. “No, you have to get more—”

“We have to go, Aziraphale, listen to me,” Crowley begged, putting a hand on his arm. “Neither of us will last long in here.”

Strategic retreat. 

“Okay,” he breathed, swallowing roughly. Aziraphale wished he could speak right, but thought he’d try it anyway. “Okay. Talk later, dodge now.” 

War laughed at them. She advanced, sword raised. 

Crowley made a wide, encompassing gesture, and there was an answering roar. Pillars around them collapsed, separating the two of them from Mars, dragging each other out from the rubble. 

__________

The cart was full. Persephone put as many scrolls as it would hold, shoving more than was capacity, and scrolls overflowed. She held some in her arms, and tried to keep her thoughts out of utter despair. 

Hypatia had gone back in again. She hadn’t returned. Persephone didn’t want to think more about it, not that she should have been back ten minutes ago, not that the fire was getting hotter, and brighter, and closer. Persephone was alone. 

“Persephone,” Briseis said, the air expelling from her lungs like a prayer.

She stopped, turning around in a quick spin. “Briseis!”

“Thank God. Do you not have self preservation skills? Why are you still here?”

“What, I’m not going to let the texts burn up!” she answered, flapping a free hand about. “And I’m stuck out here and I don’t know what’s happening in there, but everyone is gone, no one is coming back, and…”

“We’ll find them,” Persephone said before she tugged her into a tight hug. “But you’re an absolute _ idiot.” _

A scream interrupted them, forcing them both to jump. Briseis pulled Persephone away, tugging her farther back as one of the walls came down. They coughed, lungs filling with more smoke. 

“Hafta leave,” Briseis choked, coughing hard into her elbow. 

“No arguments here,” Persephone said, hurrying to untie the horse that was somehow, miraculously staying put instead of panicking and bolting. 

Just before they left, Persephone glanced back and stopped. “Oh, my god, look.”

Persephone turned her head, mouth dropping open. Crowley walked with Aziraphale out of the blaze, who had his arm slung over the taller man’s shoulder. His eyes were stained black, like they’d been rubbed in charcoal.

Crowley’s tense facial muscles loosened when he saw the two girls, offering them a tired smile. “Yeah, don’t mind us, just passing through—”

The roof above them cracked in a deafening thunder. Aziraphale gasped and ripped out of Crowley’s hold, sword up and ready, facing the direction of the fire. It seemed to bubble and snap more, and only after a moment did Persephone realize that there was a woman standing there. In the fire. Laughing.

“Well, I hate that,” muttered Briseis. 

Persephone grabbed for Briseis’ hand and held it tight, inching into her space. “Yeah. Yeah, really hate it.”

Aziraphale was blind, but he knew where she was. He swung his sword fast enough for it to sing, blade whistling before he went forward. War ran hers forward, nicking across Aziraphale’s side. 

_ “Aziraphale, no, _” Crowley reached out, recoiling when War snapped her fingers and a pillar fell between them faster than should have been possible.

It all happened very fast. In one moment, Aziraphale lunged forward in a reckless move, a desperate strike. In the same moment, Crowley was there, poised to launch himself into the fight. Also in that moment, War stepped sideways, moving again too fast for anyone but Aziraphale to even pick up.

But by then, it was too late to intervene.

Briseis shoved Persephone away at the same time Persephone shouted, and from somewhere, Persephone had produced a tiny, near useless knife for cutting papyrus. She surged outwards like a snake in striking distance, and jammed it into War’s side.

War froze, her mouth dropping open. She fixed her red-eyed stare on Persephone, wheezing out a rasping jumble of distorted words. Her face twisted into something inhumane, and she screamed, crimson dripping down her side. She reached out blindly for them, but fell to her knees and burned up in a cut-off shriek, vanishing in a burst of ash.

“What,” said Briseis. Her dark eyes scanned around them, ready to jump at the nearest movement. “No, wait, what just happened?”

“I…” Crowley said, but he didn’t actually look so sure.

“Human made monsters can be destroyed by human made virtues,” Aziraphale said softly, huffing a soft, disbelieving laugh as he did. “Huh. Curious.” 

Persephone looked a bit like she wanted to laugh and a bit like she wanted to burst into tears. “But the scrolls, they...”

Aziraphale’s arm was slung back over Crowley’s shoulder, though his hand was firmly holding Aziraphale’s arm in place this time. He froze, looking back at the building, crumbling, white stone revealed under the wood. 

Crowley did what he could, miracled as many as they could manage out of the library, safe aboard _ To The Fairest. _ If Heaven ever got wind of what he’d done, he was almost certain that they’d punish him with some divine wrath, or worse, petition to make him Fall. 

Some. Some of them, but nowhere near the library’s once expansive collection. The one thing he’d wanted to protect, what he’d promised Hypatia he’d do. His expression pulled taut and pained, eyes closing tight. It was as plain to him as it might have been a condolence letter, that she wasn’t going to return. 

Crowley’s arm curled around him tighter, and Aziraphale leaned against him, grateful for the support. When he felt fingers rubbing circles along his back, he shifted, glancing up at Crowley with a regretful smile, and pulled away. 

“We need to leave. The rest of the city is going to burn,” Aziraphale said, straightening himself back up. “We don’t want to be anywhere near here when it does. 

__________

The Lighthouse of Pharos was extinguished that night for the first time in hundreds of years. 

The two of them laid out on top of the lighthouse pillar, a tall foundation beneath the open top. The city was mourning and silent, like the echoing wake of a storm with the survivors too afraid to come out yet. The wind brought an icy chill, but neither of them thought to complain about it. They sat with their backs against one another, resting their heads on each other’s shoulders.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard another angel laugh,” Aziraphale said. He was concentrating on blinking away the rest of the blurriness, resisting the urge to reach up and rub his eyes again. “I think that might be what bothers me most, sometimes.”

Never would he say it in another circumstance, not in another thousand years, that he didn’t approve of everything Heaven did. Aziraphale never questioned or did what he wasn’t told. This was an exception to the rule, a night where Heaven might have stopped it, but they were left to their own devices. 

“I’ll buy that,” Crowley answered, scoffing. “Vacant stares and pretty smiles. “‘s most of what I remember from up there.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. 

“Yeah.” Crowley shrugged, the movement of his shoulder brushing against Aziraphale’s. “Did you hear that Orestes ran Cyril out of the city?”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “Good on him.”

“Something about getting ahold of a flaming sword to fend him off. People are saying it’s God’s will,” Crowley replied, a smirk in his voice. 

Aziraphale let out a soft breath. “Well, how ‘bout that. Should hunt that down sooner or later.”

They were silent for a little longer, until Aziraphale hummed softly. “So. Persephone.”

“What about her?” Crowley frowned, tilting his head to the side. 

“She got rid of War. Not for long, I don’t think, but—well. I think she knows, but I realized human creativity on multiple aspects can be, er, anthropomorphized as well.”

Crowley groaned softly, shoving his shoulder backwards into Aziraphale without any real heat to it. “English, angel.”

“I believe, my dear, that Persephone is who we’d call Curiosity.”

Crowley frowned. “Oh.” Blinking, he made another thoughtful noise. “Huh. Suppose she can smack War around all she likes, then.”

“I came to about the same conclusion. As did she, actually. Briseis is delighted about it.”

“‘m happy for them both,” Crowley muttered. He idly tapped the stone they sat upon. “Do human-made entities have freewill, do you think?” 

“Can’t say. Supposed to be just a human thing.” 

“I’m not sure you’re convinced of their freewill,” Crowley said, “or maybe you’re not convinced of The Plan. Which is it, angel?” 

Aziraphale let out a long, long breath. “Don’t ask me that.”

“Okay,” Crowley answered, low beneath his breath. 

Hours passed and they’d slowly moved closer. Their hands touched, fingers intertwined. “How are your eyes?” he murmured.

“About as good as you’d think. They didn’t start bleeding and haven’t exploded yet.”

“That’s… good.”

Aziraphale huffed a soft, amused noise of agreement. His sight really as returning, however, and he could see Crowley properly from this close. His ginger hair had come out of its long braid, loose and wild down his back, spilling like a molten waterfall over his shoulders. If he turned around, he’d see unblinking yellow, somehow more emotive than a hundred human’s.

“What’re you gonna do with the scrolls we managed to save?” Crowley murmured.

Aziraphale was quiet for a few minutes, but Crowley was happy to wait.

“Feels wrong to keep them to myself,” he said, “but I don’t know if I can see another piece of literature go up in flames.”

Nodding, Crowley made a noncommittal noise. “I’m sure you’ll figure out something to do with them.”

At some point, Crowley looked over the edge, and it seemed that they weren’t the only ones with the optimism to continue on, rebuild from what little they could keep. 

“Hey, look,” Crowley whispered softly to him.

Aziraphale closed his eyes.

Crowley shifted, fingers squeezing tight. “Angel.”

Aziraphale sighed heavily, the weight of a thousand scrolls on his shoulders, and peered down. 

He breathed out. 

Below them, across the city, pinpricks of orange light spread across the burnt city. Candles, Aziraphale realized. Hundreds of them, with more of them materializing every minute that passed. 

Fresh tears prickled at Aziraphale’s eyes. His hand was warm in Crowley’s. 

The lighthouse wasn’t lit, but there was enough fire to guide back to Alexandria — its people stood outside, lamps burning in their hands, flames echoing the stars. 

In a city with no lights save embers of fire from lamplight and the districts where people milled about for entertainment of certain variety, The Lighthouse of Pharos burned to lead sailors and soldiers alike back home. 

Above them, it was dark enough to see endlessly into the black. With nothing but tiny flames burning, they could see the stars better than anywhere else, with perfect clarity, clusters and nebulae, and colors that reflect off the different light waves that travelled millions of light years to reach earth. 

“I was thinking,” said Aziraphale. “If you still need someone to go to Rome for you…”

_ With you. _

Crowley’s lips tugged up in a fond smile. He closed his eyes, leaning back. “I might.”

“Just the once,” Aziraphale clarified.

The demon laughed, fingers curling around the angel's. “Wouldn’t dream of anything more.”

_________ 

__________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I finished an entire plot. First fully finished thing I've ever posted, I think, and gotta say, it feels weird. I do hope you enjoyed reading it, and good grief, kudos on getting to the end of a fic where half of it got run by OC's who grabbed the script, ran it through a shredder, and started running the show. 
> 
> The biggest, most fangirlish thank you to the maker of the absolutely stunning artwork, Mio. Like, ohmygod. The sweetest, most patient person on the face of the planet, I cannot express, so I'll just shamelessly send everyone in her direction. 
> 
> Find her on Instagram [here](https://www.instagram.com/esmioraa/?hl=en) and follow her on Twitter [here.](https://twitter.com/esmiora?lang=en)
> 
> Also a huge, huge thank you to Niao, who was forced to listen to me scream about my own OC's and plot for weeks on end. Like, in person. She actually supplied coffee all night for this last week of the event. Literal bloody saint. If there was any small amount of clarity in this whole thing, it was due to her. She also did a fic for the Mini Bang! It's awesome and deliciously angsty, so do go check it out. I'll just shove that right [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightningpelt/pseuds/Lightningpelt)

**Author's Note:**

> Catch me over on Twitter, if you like a lot of Good Omens spam.  
[Find me here!](https://twitter.com/AdhocPeacock)


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